Gentle Apocalypse
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: NO SLASH.The knights are captured, and hell ensues.Some adult content, not graphic. READ WITH CAUTION.Rating varies from PG13 to R, but the majority of the story will be a high PG13.
1. Chapter 1:Power

A/N: Well, I got an idea for my next long KA fic. I think it was somewhat sparked by a work of LadyBush , although there shall be definite differences. I recommend heading on over to her fic and reading/reviewing, although it is slash. But nonetheless, it's good, and I like it. Heh. So here be the 

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this, though for those of you who have a real soft spot for the knights, it may be a bit hard to bear at times. **This isn't slash in the sense that there isn't any sexual attraction or desire between characters, despite what it may seem at times.** I don't know how violent this will get, but I know it'll be pretty damn angsty. I'm starting out with one central idea this time, so I'll find out what happens along the way, just like you. Like that last chapter of _Resurrection_.... Hee.

This is too short. TT

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gentle Apocalypse 

Chapter 1: Power

"On your knees, filth!" The Saxon snapped his command in a bellow not unlike that of Bors, but in a repulsive way that emphasized his drooling mouth that reeked of his last meal. He shoved Lancelot to the ground with his words, and the Sarmatian gritted his teeth in fury at being subdued. He heard the smack behind him and knew they had struck Arthur. And Arthur knew that Lancelot wanted to run to his aid, and Lancelot knew Arthur didn't want him to. And still, he waited on his knees.

One of the brutes seized Galahad by the shoulders and began to drag him away, despite his frantic struggles to escape. The Saxon laughed heartily as the youngest knight cried out to Gawain when his best friend could do nothing but watch him hopelessly. Galahad pleaded with his fellow knights for help, his wide eyes imploring. "Please, don't let him take me away. Please don't let him take me, Arthur, Gawain, please! Please, gods, no," he wailed. The knights looked away painfully as he disappeared beyond the trees, his boots no longer scraping and digging into the dirt, all except Arthur and Gawain. The youngest knight had begun to weep, overwhelmed with fear of what he knew was to come, and he was no longer a fierce warrior knight but a desperate child instead. Once the knights could see him no longer, Galahad cried out to the gods, while the Saxons who stayed behind looked in his direction smugly and the one who led him off kept laughing. The screaming didn't stop until Galahad broke into a loud moan that turned into wailing and sobbing and begging. At this, even Arthur lowered his gaze, but Gawain could not stop looking into the trees, though his persistence was futile. Tears of absolute rage mingled with despair fled down his face, and any one of the knights could have told that the look in his eyes was one of vindictive blood lust.

"Well, he must be having a good time," one of the other Saxons said to his comrades, eliciting laughter. "After he's done, I'd like to have a go at that impish little boy."

"Damn you to hell, you vile, foul, evil, barbaric beast," Gawain shouted, his head snapping toward the other man. "I'm going to cut you open and rip your insides apart with my bare hands, you loathsome spawn of a wicked prostitute." But before he could say anymore, the Saxon standing nearest the gathered knights struck Gawain's face, and the others only laughed again. Lancelot was seething as he listened to the distant cries of Galahad, and his breaths had turned into heaves of an approaching outburst. He wasn't sure what made him more furious – that a Saxon was violating his friend or the fact that no matter how many of them he killed, Galahad would never be free of the pain.

"And who do we have here?" Cedric questioned, circling Lancelot, who was now in the sight of his fellow knights. The other Saxons were a lingering shadows off to the side, watching. He turned to look at Arthur, whose gentle gray eyes were bewildered and riddled with pain for Galahad and fear for Lancelot. They were set on his best friend until Cedric looked to him, which diverted his gaze to the Saxon leader. Cedric smirked and looked back to Lancelot.

"Arthur's whore." Lancelot ground his teeth as the Saxons snickered.

"For as much as I hate the Romans, I have never been able to deny their good taste," Cedric continued in his smooth tone, circling again. "Arthur is no exception, is he, boys? He's chosen the finest of his knights for his bed." The mirth continued, as Cedric crouched before Lancelot, looking steadily into Lancelot's narrow glare. The Sarmatian's naturally intense eyes were smoldering with anger, so great that it left him no room for tears or sadness. He wanted to slaughter the Saxon who continued to stare at him with no detectable emotion in his eyes but do more than just kill him. He wanted to mutilate him, cause him agony, make him scream like Galahad had screamed.

"Does your captain bed you well, knight?" Cedric taunted but receiving no answer from Lancelot but a murderous flash. "I say we break him too, men – this pretty little thing. He's too proud for his own good. Shall we make it a spectacle for his comrades to watch?" The shadowed Saxons gave a cheer of agreement, but Lancelot's eyes were unmoving. "Very well then."

Cedric stood tall, looming over Lancelot like a child's nightmare, while the Saxons cheered with eager eyes. Taking his sword in its scabbard from his belt, the enemy leader nearly grinned when Lancelot lifted his head to glare at him. When he struck the knight across the face with his sheathed weapon, he relished the fleck of blood that escaped from the angry welt on Lancelot's sharply sculpted cheekbone. The knight's eyes watered now, the cut stinging for only a minute, and he was glad he could not see his captain's face when his head was hung. The sword next came down on his back, almost causing him to fall over. Two more blows, and Cedric ordered him to stand up. Lancelot proudly struggled to his feet, though his leg quaked under his weight. Yet once we was eye level with the Saxon, Cedric punched his eyes, and he staggered back with a cry he failed to stifle, as searing pain burst in his face. Before he had time to breathe, another strike split his lower lip, and his legs failed him. Cedric backed away as the whole crowd of Saxons advanced on Lancelot, too impatient to wait anymore. The blows came too fast and too many for the knight to count, kicking and striking with sheathed broadswords. He pressed his one good eye shut, not wanting to see the blur of faces all around him of those brutes he had failed to exterminate altogether. He hissed as ribs were broken and curled into a tighter ball, arching when they rammed their boots into his back, curling back when other kicks attacked his chest. After a while, he was sure they had paralyzed him, and that there wasn't a rib left whole. A terrible pain had blossomed in his stomach, and as the blood ran from his mouth, he decided he wouldn't be surprised if something had torn inside. He just glad he couldn't see the Roman. _Don't watch, Arthur_.

But Arthur _was_ watching. Arthur was watching with an undeniable pang in his chest, and a faint trace of fury that was overpowered by his grief. The warrior in him was raging, ready to throw himself at those beasts and tear them apart with his teeth if he had to. The friend in him despaired. Only despaired. And he wondered if he would be of any use to Lancelot after it was over, if he could soothe the knight. Perhaps if he found some way to do that, God would forgive him for doing nothing to stop it now, for just sitting back and watching. He doubted he could ever forgive himself. And he would tell the knight he was sorry, but he knew his friend would tell him to be quiet and save needless apologies. If only Lancelot would open his eyes. If only the Sarmatian would look at him and see what his eyes had to say. _I'm with you, Lancelot. _

And Lancelot opened his eye. It flashed for a second, asking why the Roman was watching when he had asked him not to. Arthur could only begin to apologize, before the knight cut him off. No apologies, Lancelot insisted. Arthur fell quiet, eyes glimmering at his fallen knight. As they continued to beat him, Lancelot did not pull his eyes away from Arthur's, even when those gray pools let down quiet tears for him. But Lancelot told Arthur that is was all right because his body had gone numb, and Arthur told Lancelot that his tears were for the pain that would come afterward. The Sarmatian almost smiled. He told Arthur to remember the first time he, Lancelot, had been wounded all those years ago. And Arthur's tears only thickened when Lancelot's words came clearly in his mind.

"_As long as you are with me, I have no pain to bear."_

"Arthur's whore isn't so pretty anymore," one of the Saxons mocked, and the rest laughed heartily at the crumpled form of the Sarmatian, eye black and lip bleeding. Yet Lancelot was not so furious for now, as he looked at his captain with one eye and knew that Arthur was reaching out to lay a hand on his wrist. He did not, however, see the other knights' aching gaze. He only wondered somewhere in his muddled mind if they would touch any of the others, if they would fight them and whether or not it was his own fault that they had beat him.

"It's not your fault," Arthur murmured.

"It's not yours either," Lancelot replied.

They finally stopped, and Lancelot could feel their shadows draw away, the circle dispersing. Yet before he could do anything else, Cedric grabbed him by the collar of his tunic and began to drag him away, in the same path Galahad had taken. He cracked open his eye as the ground noisily protested his limp body that did not bother to struggle. Arthur's pleading eyes were almost distressed enough to make Lancelot smile strangely, though he knew his own fate. He gazed steadily at his captain as Cedric pulled him away, barely noticing the equally distraught expressions of Tristan, Bors, Dagonet, and Gawain, the knights nearest Arthur. It was almost as if Lancelot had resigned himself to death, accepting it with a peaceful frame of mind, and Arthur wanted to scream at him to fight.

Lancelot's attention was diverted from Arthur's gaze when the other Saxon passed him by with Galahad, dragging in the same manner that Cedric was. The young knight was unconscious, since Lancelot refused to believe he was dead, and the elder Sarmatian could see the remnants of tears on Galahad's face. His eye glimmered as he noticed the trail of blood Galahad was leaving behind in the dirt. The younger knight's clothes were ripped and tattered, his face bruised, and Lancelot's tranquil resignation was suddenly shattered when he realized what atrocity had befallen his friend. Gawain's bittersweet cry reverberated in his mind, Galahad's name tearing the night sky and sounding distant. Lancelot could hear the sound of the unconscious knight's body hitting the ground completely, a single thump, as the Saxon left him before Gawain's shattered eyes. He didn't need to see that Saxon to know the beast was grinning in triumph as his comrades welcomed him with mirth.

"Galahad," Gawain wailed, scraping toward the body on his knees and throwing himself at his beloved friend. "Galahad," he sobbed in defeat, shaking. Arthur looked in terror to Lancelot, and Galahad's boots were the last thing Lancelot saw before being pulled into darkness.

Though he struggled to see what was taking place behind him, he failed in his attempt, and could only writhe. It was too dark, and the ground was harder than it had ever been before. He worried for Arthur and the other knights, though he had a dark sense that he should be more worried for himself now. Cedric chuckled behind him, and the knight's fear mounted, though he would never jeopardize his pride to admit it. The Saxon gave a shout of victory toward the camp site, and he was answered with a chorus of mirth from his men, spears pounding into the dirt that Lancelot could hear all too well.

And the next thing he knew, Cedric seized him, and pain exploded. He could not keep from crying out, as the Saxon cackled, and he knew that laugh would echo in his mind forevermore. An agonizing fire burned him, and he regretted that it was not enough for him to pass out. His fingers curled into the earth, his fists squeezing the dirt in a vain attempt to ease his suffering, but the earth was cruel. It only offered it's rough surface to his face, and in his subconscious, he could hear the rhythmic scraping of his body in the dust. The pain subsided to only a mild ache, but the humiliation had already begun to strangle him. Here he was, Sir Lancelot of Arthur's Round Table, defeated by a Saxon in the worst possible way. How could he ever look anyone in the face again? How could he live with himself, as Cedric suffocated him, on him and in him and conquering? How could he tell Arthur? Lancelot lay quiet at last, not bothering to cry out and give Cedric the satisfaction or Arthur the heartache. He only squeezed the earth, asking for mercy and receiving none, his glazed his eyes staring out into the darkness. And when finally Cedric left him, he remained motionless, hoping with what was left of his soul that his body would die as well. His tears pierced the dirt, and only then did the earth understand.


	2. Chapter 2:Language

A/N: **I demand that you all go read and review Nimue26's fic called _Winter of Our Discontent._** **NOW!!** It's awesome!! Tell her to update, for God's love!

Well, this isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but I don't think I could have written anymore without it just being bubble wrap. I don't know if any of this had any point whatsoever in the story....

The foreign language in here is both Latin and Italian, but mostly Italian. The Italian is all right, thanks to a great translations site, but the Latin is probably screwed up. So if any of you speak Latin out there, sorry for the discrepancies. Please Read and Review!! Thank you!! And remember: **NO SLASH.**

Oh, and by the way, typos are my incurable disease. I try to comb through and find them, but the little buggers always escape. So forgive me for those.

Anyway. Thank you to all my readers and reviewers! Love you!!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 2: Language

His muffled groan did not reach Saxon ears when he awoke. Before disorientation faded, the pain was distant and dull, and he wasn't sure of his situation for several minutes. Once his sight cleared in his one good eye, Arthur's face lay near his own. The Roman was sleeping, and Lancelot realized that his head of curls rested against his friend's soft belly. His captain was curled not unlike the knight, with his bent legs cupping Lancelot's back. His arms were yet tied behind him, but they had not bothered to bind Lancelot again, for some reason. The Sarmatian couldn't smile, even when as felt Arthur's belly moving under his head and listened to his steady breathing. He didn't make a sound, as he lay like a dying star in the crescent moon of Arthur's body. He only watched his friend sleep and realized that dawn was approaching, the pale blue floating through the canopy to his gleaming eye, while no fire burned for what Saxon stood watch out of his sight. As long he kept still, only a dull ache pulsed in his body. He couldn't feel himself bleeding anymore and concluded that he had stopped during the night. His mind wandered to Galahad after a while, burning with the memory of his screams and pleading, with the knowledge of what they had done to him. He resisted the thought of what Cedric had done in the darkness and opened his eyes when he had not realized he had closed them again. Arthur's face was there again.

Lancelot breathed as shallow as possible, ignoring the ache it caused his broken ribs. The sound of Arthur's deeper, unhindered breaths soothed him as the ocean tide would, and he studied the Roman's face with boyish observation. No waking day had passed him by for many long years that he had not seen that face, too mild for a Roman officer. He thought of how young they were in the way they lay together, children in all but the guise of their bodies and worn faces. He wondered what it would have been like to have had Arthur for a friend when he was a boy, though when he first rode unto Arthur's charge, they had yet been on the threshold of boyhood. How life changes people, he contemplated. Somehow, Lancelot had gone from being a Sarmatian child to a knight who killed for Rome, and Arthur – what had Arthur been before? Lancelot wondered as to whom the Roman had been before the death of his mother. Arthur spoke little of it, only mentioned that it had happened, but Lancelot knew that was the point at which his friend had transformed. Perhaps that's why Arthur was so serious, too often weary in appearance. Lancelot sighed. Situations like this didn't help the captain. He knew Arthur too well, and Arthur, with his damn sense of responsibility, was going to blame himself for everything the Saxons did.

Lancelot began to think that he could the Roman's heartbeat through his stomach or at least have that warm sense of his friend's life. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to Arthur's belly rising and receding under his head, thinking more and more of the ocean. He remembered the time Arthur had rescued him from Woad capture, alone, and both had been wounded. As they had rode back toward Hadrian's Wall, both had passed out and plopped off the Roman's horse, waking in the twilight of dawn to find themselves on the beach. Arthur had told him, as they had both lain on the sand, that the beaches of Britain were nothing like that of Italy. The beach near Rome, as he recalled from his childhood, was warm and bright colorful. Lancelot had barely listened then, his head resting against Arthur's breast and his body curled against his friend's. Dawn twilight had not turned into sunny morning that day but had remained until dark, gray clouds hovering instead. They had slept, even through the ride to the Wall, once the other knights had found them. Lancelot was reminded of it now, and he could almost pretend that they were lying on that shore again, alone, instead of in the depths of a wood in Saxon captivity. Sleep reached for him again, and he somehow felt hope because of Arthur's knees against his curving back. For the moment, he pushed their ugly predicament to the corner of memories that should be utterly forgotten and, with the hope that the Saxons would sleep into the bright morning, approached sleep's alluring grasp.

"_Adiuvo nobis. Contego militis mei. Contrado nos." _

_Help us. Protect my knights. Deliver us. _

Lancelot opened his eye and looked to Arthur with sleep ebbing from him again. The peace that been on Arthur's face was disrupted, and Arthur looked troubled now. His friend was praying to his God in his sleep, for only then did Lancelot ever hear Arthur speak Latin. He did not understand the language, but he had admired it's flowing beauty for some time, until it sparked a jealousy in him – that Arthur would murmur to his God in words only he could understand, seeming desperate sometimes, like now. For the past few years, he had looked upon his captain with scorn, whenever the Roman knelt in prayer. Though he never surrendered his distaste, Arthur's saddened expression brought on by his knight's judgment never failed to make him silently regret his harsh words. Before jealousy had prevailed in Lancelot's heart, his admiration for the language had driven him to ask Arthur about it one night.

"What's the language you speak, Arthur?" he had asked at the Round Table, after dinner once. "It's pretty." Arthur had smiled and told him it was Latin, the most respected language of the civilized world, besides Greek. The common people didn't speak it much anymore, since the Germanic savages had brought on new languages, but the scholars and monks kept it alive and taught it to their pupils. Lancelot had asked him to say something, and Arthur had laughed.

"Like what?" he had questioned. Lancelot had shrugged, and Arthur had begun to search his mind for something to say.

"_Apellatio mei Artorious_," he had babbled, for lack of a better phrase. _My name is Arthur_. "_Bors est ebrius_." _Bors is drunk_. He laughed, and Lancelot smiled ignorantly, waiting for more with warm eyes. Arthur had looked at him, after sipping his wine, his eyes glimmering reflectively. "_Te amo_," he had said softly. _I love you_. And Lancelot, having had no idea what that meant, had only smiled in return. Curious as to what it had meant, the knight had gone in search of a Roman officer and asked. The following evening, he had sat with Arthur again after dinner, while the other knights amused themselves amongst each other.

"Arthur," he had started, bringing the Roman's attention to him from where Gawain and Bors played lots boisterously. "_L'amo anche_." _I love you too_. Arthur had broken into a smile at the way the strange words came from his friend's lips.

"That's Italian," he had informed Lancelot. The knight had blushed at his error, but Arthur had only laughed warmly. And when Lancelot had come upon his captain knelt before his God and murmuring Latin prayers, a few years later, he discovered he was jealous of the way Arthur spoke to God instead of to him. He wanted Arthur to confide in him like that. He wanted Arthur to murmur to him in Latin all the worries of his heart, even if he couldn't understand it.

"Am I such a stranger that you will not speak to me?" he had asked in frustration one night, long ago.

"But I do speak to you," Arthur had defended in distress.

"Yes, empty, petty words that would go better unsaid and orders," Lancelot had raged. "Why won't you talk to me anymore? Why am I no longer good enough to confide in that you must turn someone who does not exist instead?"

"He may not exist to you, but God exists to me," Arthur had said more angrily.

"He's not real," Lancelot had shouted. "He's not listening to you. He doesn't care because He doesn't have a heart. This is real." He had grabbed Arthur's hand and pressed it to his own heart, his eyes demanding Arthur's and daring contradiction. "Do you feel that, Arthur? It is me you feel, my beating heart that keeps me alive because I am flesh and blood. This is real, this and not your invisible God who could never love you as someone with a beating heart could." Arthur had only looked at him, aching.

"Why will you not confide in me?" Lancelot had asked, his voice fading. He could not remember what had happened next.

And Lancelot thus lay with his captain now, eye gleaming with memory, and he had never felt more alone in the world with Arthur. It was not the Roman's God that lay at Arthur's side now but Lancelot. And Lancelot's gods were no where to be found either. Only Arthur lay with the beaten knight. Only they were there for each other. But as Lancelot watched Arthur's face relax, once the words had dissipated from his lips, the Sarmatian wished Arthur would speak to him in some pretty language and forget about his invisible deity.

At last, Lancelot moved his stiff limbs and groaned at the pain that burst in everywhere because of it. His chest was suddenly on fire, and everything else throbbed. Arthur woke to see his friend squirming and shook off sleep quickly to replace it with concern. He asked what troubled the knight, to which Lancelot eloquently answered, "It's all bloody pain." Despite this, the Sarmatian rolled onto his side and struggled in the dirt until he lay parallel to Arthur, his face an inch from the Roman's. After a moment of staring into each other's eyes, Arthur titled his head to lay his brow against Lancelot's, and the knight sighed, both closing their eyes.

"Lancelot, I'm sorry," Arthur began, but the knight cut him off before he could say anymore.

"Tell me you're all right," Lancelot uttered after a minute, and he knew that if Arthur did, it would be a life. But Arthur replied that he would if Lancelot needed him to do so.

"Oh, Lancelot," he breathed after a pause of silence, and Lancelot, even with his eyes shut, could hear the Roman's voice shake. He knew another apology was lingering on Arthur's tongue, but his previous insistence kept it at bay. The knight opened his wide eyes to look into Arthur's and a gleam of unshed tears came into focus after a minute. And Lancelot knew in his heart that Arthur's arms, still tied back, ached to encircle the knight. It was the only thing Arthur could have done to comfort Lancelot, though the knight had done a good job of pushing back the night's events far into his mind, but the Roman was prevented from even that. And Lancelot knew Arthur felt useless, and Arthur knew Lancelot didn't want him to feel that way.

"It's all right," the knight whispered through his eyes. Arthur's glittered.

"No, it's not."

"You're with me. That's all I need."

"You're too brave, Lancelot."

"And you hate yourself too much."

When Lancelot went unanswered, silence ensued for a long minute, before the knight asked Arthur to speak to him in pretty words because beauty no longer lived in this place.

"_Il mio amico il più caro, sono cosi spiacente." My dearest friend, I'm so sorry_. The tears welled in his gentle gray eyes, and Lancelot moved closer to him, his own eyes shining supportively. _"Stara bene. Prometto. Non loro lascerò l'ha doluto ancora." It'll be all right. I promise. I won't let them hurt you_ _again_. He pressed his forehead against Lancelot's, closing his eyes as the tears fell. _"Lo proteggerò,"_ he murmured. _I'll protect you. "Il mio Lancelot. Lo proteggero, il mio cavaliere amato. Prometto. Prometto." My Lancelot. I'll protect you, my beloved knight. I promise. I promise. _He pressed his eyes shut painfully, as the tears flowed, and Lancelot, looking at his friend like a hurt child and, not understanding the words, closed his eyes as well and tried again to move his body closer to Arthur's. Arthur wept quietly, trying so hard not to mentally admit to himself that his best friend had been raped and failing. He didn't even want to remember Galahad.

While Arthur and Lancelot lay with eyes shut, Gawain woke to find himself still slumped over Galahad's beaten body. A breeze had descended, and the younger knight's curls swayed at its brush. Farther away from Gawain and Galahad than they had been the night before, the other knights lay sleeping, and Gawain didn't bother to look for Arthur or Lancelot, who both lay in the other direction. His one and only concern at the present moment was the motionless body beneath him. He struggled to sit back on his heels, straightening, and remembered that his hands were bound when he tried to reach out to his friend.

"Galahad," he muttered instead, but the youngest knight slept on, no emotion detectable on his face. Gawain grimaced, trying not to allow the tears to return, as he looked over Galahad's battered body and the dried blood on the ground around him.

When Galahad did not answer him, Gawain lowered himself slowly to the ground, his face descending to the earth before his friend's. And he lay with Galahad in likeness to Arthur and Lancelot, unable to see the bruises and blood, only Galahad's face. He called the young knight's name again, little more than a whisper now.

"Galahad, I'm here," he murmured because he could not take his friend into his arms. He cursed the rope around his wrists and the ground that was no comfort to aching limbs. He cursed himself for failing to protect his brother and for being a mortal that could not foresee what would come in the future, who could have never seen this coming. And he cursed the Saxons for killing his Galahad.

"Never again," he said, shaking his head, weeping. "Never again will they hurt you. I'll die for you first." And if he did not die, he would instead kill the Saxons. He would slaughter every man that he needed to slaughter and probably more than was necessary, simply because no amount of bloodshed could take away Galahad's pain. And he cursed himself for not being God.

"He raped me," Lancelot said hoarsely, barely audible. Tears of confession laced his voice.

"I know," Arthur choked. "But he the one in sin, not you."

"He raped me, Arthur. I'm a filthy Saxon's whore." His tears matched Arthur's now.

"No," Arthur breathed. "You're my knight. My Lancelot. And I love you."

"I'm not worthy of anything good or pure or honorable anymore, Arthur," Lancelot quietly wailed, his breath hitching within the broken cage of his ribs.

"_Non importa. L'amerò sempre." It doesn't matter. I'll always love you. _

And somehow, Lancelot understood what Arthur spoke unto him and heard everything the Roman did not say. He knew Arthur's fear for him, and he himself was admittedly afraid for Arthur and all the other knights he held so dear in his heart. Neither dared fathom what would become of them, deciding it better to ignore and deal with it when it came. No, instead, they whispered to each other, without any words but heartbeats and painful breaths and mingled tears, that somehow they would be all right because men need hope. And instead of the woods where the twilight was lavender, they were back on the shore, and they could pretend that the tears weren't there. The ocean had washed them away.


	3. Chapter 3:Dark Choir

A/N: Well, finally, I have finished Chapter 3. More violence and angst to come. Aw, come on, you know you love it. Hee. Sorry for the delay and the shortness. It isn't too short, but it's not as long as I typically like my chapters to be. And yet, this was all that came without putting any bubble wrap stuff in it. (Filler)

Please **Read and Review**! You make my life worthwhile!

And thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I love you all so much!

Oh. I also recently wrote 2 one shots, called **The Tambourine Dove** in the **_Master and Commander_** fandom and **Coffee Interlude in Bastogne** in the **_Band of Brothers _**fandom. I'd really love you if you went and read those and reviewed. That is, if you're into those fandoms. Thank you!

**WARNING: The following text contains content that is not suitable for young children. Although content isn't particularly graphic, readers should proceed with caution. You, reader, have a responsibility to use discretion. If you have a problem with violence or are under 13, it is advised that you not read the following text. **

**Rated PG13 for Violence, Sexual Content, and Mild Language**

* * *

Chapter 3: Dark Choir

Arthur snapped up with sleep still clinging to his eyes, as one of the burlier Saxons dragged Lancelot away from him. Forgetting his bound hands, he lunged out for his best friend, only to hit the ground with an unpleasant thud. Lancelot's body sent one, loud scrape into the air, and his boots left a trail in the dirt. Arthur struggled back up, his eyes meeting Lancelot's, and the knight smiled sadly. Arthur called out his name, throwing himself toward his friend once more, but this time the Saxons kept him at bay. Lancelot did not fight, despite his obstinate spirit, and he did not see the others knights roused and following him with their eyes. Even Gawain stared at him, doom in his gaze and Galahad motionless in his lap.

"All right, Cedric, you had your fun whorin' 'round with tha' pretty piece o' work," began one of the Saxons, who must've been close enough to the leader to call him by name. "Now, let the boys have some fun." His grin was creeping and cruel. Lancelot didn't see, and Lancelot didn't care. Arthur did.

"All right," Cedric agreed in a low murmur, returning the smirk as he leaned over his broadsword that did not flinch beneath his weight. "But don't forget about the other one."

"Ah, yes," another agreed, slipping out into sight from behind Cedric's friend. His beady eyes shone at Galahad's crumpled form, and Gawain pulled his friend closer, frowning at his enemy. "He's been sleepin' fer too long, boys. Per'aps we should wake 'im." He almost skipped the smile, before laughing heartily out loud. No one noticed Bors twitch in an attempt to get on his feet, before Dagonet took hold of his arm in warning, and he resisted the impulse.

"If you lay a hand on any one of these knights, I swear before God you'll regret it." Arthur now stood with his pride returned to darkened eyes, leering at Cedric.

"Damn," Lancelot cursed to himself because he wasn't at Arthur's side to stop the Roman from the foolish uprising.

"God?" Cedric echoed, approaching the Roman. "You're a Saxon captive, and you still believe in God?" His men chuckled amongst themselves, but Arthur's gaze continued unflinching into Cedric's.

"Well, I'll be damned," the Saxon commander said, his voice lifting out of dominating shadow as he peered over his shoulder at his men. "This Roman's the only damn Christian in these woods." And again, the Saxons broke into mirth. He forced a punch at Arthur's jaw and kneed him in the belly when the Roman staggered, sending him to his knees. "Probably the only one for miles 'round." Lancelot's eyes were bewildered, sending worry to Arthur's crumpled form.

"'ey, Cedric – maybe we could have him too. He's a feisty one – more fun to break." The Saxon's friend was almost drooling as he eyed Arthur deviously.

"No," said Cedric, starting Lancelot's heart again. "The Roman goes undefiled. Better a torment to watch his whores suffer, than take it on himself." And his followers gave murmuring chuckles, baring wolfish teeth.

"Well, let's get started then," exclaimed one of the Saxons who had remained silent up to this point, as he bound toward the other grounded knights, grabbing Tristan by the hawk-keeper's wild hair and yanking his head back. "This one's got a rough look to 'im. I'd like to hear him scream." His last words were almost a growl, and his comrades jeered at his back. Tristan's eyes only flashed for a second, but he was otherwise stoic.

"You can have any one you wish," said Cedric, and the Saxon snapped his head toward his leader, excitement sparking in his face. "Except for the Roman. Do with these knights of Sarmatia as you like, men. But spare their lives. You want something left for tomorrow." He turned away from their following snickers, loose tendrils of filthy hair flowing in the air almost elegantly, though he was a Saxon. He only took a few steps, before stopping and looking back to his men. They had fallen silent, waiting for him to speak. His eyes surveyed his prisoners and his warriors alike, and it almost seemed then that he was not a savage. "Don't take them out into the woods. Let them suffer here, before the eyes of all those who hold them dear." More jagged grins.

"We can't be done with this one yet," said a new Saxon, stepping out into view. He scraped toward Lancelot, who still lay against his captor's leg, held up by the back of his collar. This new enemy eyed him narrowly, a stare lacking hunger or bloodlust or cruelty, even. "He's still too pretty for a man of war. His scars are too few." The others nodded in agreement with a rumbling of rough noises. "And the other one." The Saxon turned from Lancelot and his gaze fell to Galahad, who lay like the dead in Gawain's lap. "He is too far from death and too prettily young to leave him alone just yet." Gawain felt his heart clench and could not tell if it was with fear or with hatred. The Saxon moved from his position like an urged dog and reached out for Galahad, but Gawain pushed himself back, pulling his friend with him. "Don't be a fool, knight. You have no chance to save him." The Saxon's tone was so lacking in cruelty or harshness, it was almost as if he was not one of the enemy. His fingers curled around Galahad's collar and pulled him from Gawain's desperate grasp, while two other Saxons went to restrain him. Again, a body dragged noisily along the ground, and Cedric slowly bent his legs to kneel on one knee, elbow resting on the other leg. He would only watch this night.

And so they beat Lancelot, breaking his already broken bones, darkening the bruises, and numbing him again. He did not feel the blows or hear anything but the sound of the Church choir singing in Latin, beautiful Latin, from when Arthur had taken him and the other knights to stay in a monastery over night. Lancelot listened to the memory once more, as he looked into Arthur's tear-filled eyes, across the dirt that waited for Sarmatian blood. That dark eye gleamed, the other swollen shut, and he could almost feel Arthur's hands ghosting his skin, touching those bruised cheekbones as if they were made of glass. Arthur's tears crumbled from his eyes, and Lancelot closed his own. The blows kept coming, unfelt. He wanted the memory.

"You bastards! You sons of bitches!" Gawain screamed, his face red as he struggled against his captors, tears streaming down his face. Galahad didn't move except for when they hit him, and he didn't make a sound.

"_Il Signore caro, ha la pietà su noi. Avere pietà di questi uomini, se soltanto perché sono il mio, e sono il suo servitore fedele. Consegnarci da malvagio. Darci la forza per perseverare_," Arthur murmured, eyes closed and head bowed. No one could ever understand how he could pray so calmly in situations like this. (_Dear Lord, have mercy on us. Take pity on these men, if only because they are mine, and I am your faithful servant. Deliver us from evil. Give us strength to endure.)_

"Stop it!" Gawain demanded, veins in his throat vibrating. 'Stop it, you beasts, you whore-born savages!"

"Sentire la mia preghiera. Risparmiare i miei uomini. Mie offro nel loro posto. Darme la pazienza in soffrire, O il Signore, come suo Figlio ha avuto nelle ultime ore della Sua santa vita. Potere suo sarà fatto." (Hear my prayer. Spare my men. I offer myself in their stead. Give me patience in suffering, O Lord, as your Son had in the last hours of His holy life. May your will be done.) And Lancelot opened his eye, black and shining with the murmured words in his ears, somehow. Arthur wasn't looking back this time. This time, his eyes were closed to see only God. Lancelot shut his own again, but all he could see was darkness.

"Shut ye mouth," said one of the Saxons, impatient, throwing Gawain to the dirt vehemently. The knight was silence for now, wearily pushing himself up, only to stop once he was on all fours. Through his wild hair hanging, his eyes peered at Galahad with a strange light to them, lacking fear. The youngest of the knights had not woken, nor had his eyes even given a mere flutter at any of the blows dealt to his already beaten body. All around him, the Saxons cheered and their mirth rang out in the empty wood. Half were gathered around Galahad, the other half around Lancelot, and Cedric remained knelt at a distance, slowly turning his head to faintly grin at Arthur. The Roman had opened his eyes and lowered himself to the earth, lying still, hands bound and body half curled. His eyes met with Cedric's in a quiet moment, and he did not return the facial expression.

Gawain did not feel the stitches of his heart split open again, as he watched the assault on Galahad. Only a single tear escaped him, descending his worn cheek like frozen time. He did not see the Saxons, only Galahad's face, only that face with thick curls surrounding it like a woman's veil. Those eyes did not lift to look into Gawain's; no assurance was given from those green pools. His lips did not curl into a forced smile, did not murmur soundless lies. Without Galahad to lie, Gawain had nothing to give him false hope that his friend was all right. He could only stare at that face, the face that had guided him to life when he lay in fever dreams, the face that willed him on and gave him a reason to live, to fight, to smile. Why was he not smiling now? He had watched Galahad sleep many times. The younger knight looked no different now. Yet Gawain could not curl his lips. He could not be fond of watching that face like this.

And he did not turn away when the first Saxon touched Galahad's skirt of armor. He did not flinch at the distant sound of Saxons clapping and laughing and urging their comrade on. He did not hear the scraping of man against earth, body against body, metal against dirt. He did not see the curls sway back and forth or the way Galahad's arm lay next to his head, hand limp. He only saw lashes curled against dirty cheeks, the ghost of sweat on smooth brow, chapped lips and nostrils...barely...moving. He only saw silent memories of young smiling and curls bouncing and Galahad's brow against his, eyes closed with a sweet grin, hands running down his arms and moving like water in fleeting embraces. And when the next Saxon took his turn, Gawain was blinded to the world.

Lancelot did not feel himself breathing. He did not feel the broken bones or the pulsating bruises or the burning in his swollen eye. He lay in the comfort of the dust and listened to Latin choirs melting into lonely flutes that eventually returned to the voices. He was not suffering, no. He was dreaming. The Saxons could not invade his dreams. They could invade this island, they could invade his body, they could invade the Round Table's peace, but not his dreams. Those were his own, no matter what came to pass. Those secret memories of Galahad laughing at him and Gawain drinking with him and Bors looking out for him, of Tristan peering at him when battle was about to commence, of Arthur running to his aid before the sword came. Those were his. Those were his, no matter what.

And when he opened his eyes and the blood came up, it was the turn of the wooden flute. His eyes stretched to the night sky like a rising spirit, and it was the only thing he could see. The stars, those lights that were the only ones in the darkness of evening, the stars that had guided the Round Table on so many missions before, only they filled his sight. They shone and twinkled, and he gasped to himself because he had never seen them so clear or so brilliant before. They were as countless as the sand grains on the shore, and in them, he found peace. He found hope somehow, and part of him wondered for the first time in his life if God existed. Arthur's prayers had fallen away long ago, but he could still hear the murmur, the murmur of something holy. He did not realize each blow meeting his battered form or the crimson flowing thick and lazy down his chin from over his lip, streaming down from the corners of his mouth like Gawain's solitary tear. He didn't feel the blood escaping from his flesh, from his torn flesh. No pain graced him. No pain...

Arching back, he closed his eyes, stretching and running his curls against the dirt. His hands blossomed and fingers opened, even the broken ones. He took a breath, a breath that filled his lungs with the ocean. The tide washed up over his body, lapping at the Sarmatian and the Roman curled together, and the wind touched his black curls. He was sleeping on the sand. He was dreaming. He did not feel them tearing at his trousers, the laces coming undone, his sleeves ripping the air. If the Saxon was annoyed because his legs were unmoving, he did not know it. And he did not care. Arthur lay him down to sleep, whispering in Latin, all those pretty words. His head neared the pillow slowly, taking one year, two years, the life he had been denied.

"Lancelot." Arthur's whisper caressed his face, and the others words were indecipherable to him.

"Sing to me," he said, eyes lifting open with gleaming fever, quiet with hovering death. The candlelight glowed on his face, and Arthur sat at his side.

"Sleep," Arthur's voice answered, floating to him like a living mist.

"Sing to me," the knight said again. "Latin."

He was sleeping, sleeping against Arthur, as the Roman rode to Hadrian's Wall. His head bobbed against Arthur's shoulder, his curls bouncing. He was limp in Arthur's arms, and the lull of the horse's gallop was like the sea. Always the sea. Do you remember the sea, Arthur? His dark eyes lifted open for a moment, big and dark and breath taking. He did not smile against Arthur's shoulder, only watched the mists run away from him. He could feel the fading. He could feel Arthur's subtle glory and unfettered Roman love. As he bobbed against the captain's body, kept in Arthur's grasp as if the Roman were a mother guarding her child, he could hear murmured Latin prayers. He could see Arthur kneeling before him and taking his gloved hands in his, his own weary face breaking into a smile that likened him to a statue of a saint. And for a minute, for a heartbeat, for a breath, Arthur's devotion to him was the same as the Roman's devotion to God. He refused to believe he was dreaming this. He couldn't realize anymore that it was a memory.

Arthur wept again, still lying on the ground, hands bound near his chin. They almost seemed as if yet folded in prayer, but now his attention had gone from God to Lancelot. He watched as the Saxon raped his best friend again, and a pain he had never known before in all his life ate away at his heart like a flame. He did not have to shift his gaze to know that Galahad suffered the same affliction, though his youngest knight was too far gone in unconsciousness to wake while they defiled him. Arthur could feel his body curl further into itself, as his eyes were filled with Lancelot's upturned face. How could the Sarmatian be so calm? How could Lancelot, one of his fiercest and most stubborn warriors, simply lie motionless and do nothing to save himself? Somewhere beyond his despair, he pitied the Apostle John, having finally come to an understanding of how he must have felt when he stood before his crucified Lord. The sting of this tragedy befalling his brother in arms was more agony than he had ever experienced in war, more than he believed himself capable of bearing. Some part of him screamed to go to Lancelot's aid, but he knew his attempts would be futile. He was just one man. How could he ever overcome the evil of the world?

"Il mio Dio, il mio Dio. Avere la piet" (My God, my God. Have mercy.) And still his tears burned through his eyes and down his face, blurring Lancelot as if the knight was fading away completely. Arthur had never felt so inadequate. He knew no matter what, he could not take this pain, this haunting away from Lancelot and Galahad. He could not give each of them the life he had led before this captivity. It almost seemed as if a voice muttered in the back of his head, "Now, you see why the Lord demands man abstain from vengeance."

"Ma lei loro vendicherà, il mio Signore? La sua giustizia sarà fatta, quando già tali malvagio ha capitato ai miei cavalieri amati?" he asked, receiving no answer. (But will you avenge them, my Lord? Will your justice be done, when already such evil has befallen my beloved knights?)

"Galahad," wailed Gawain, having regained his senses. Rage and grief tore at his heart like a wild boar. He had risen up, though he was kept on his knees, and his face gleamed with the torrents of injustice and devastation, skin red and veins raised and eyes like broken glass in the moonlight. The third of the Saxons was upon Galahad now, and still, the young knight had not woken. Part of Gawain hoped that his best friend was dead. And perhaps it was for that, more than anything else, that he wept.

"Shut up, ye squirming maggot," barked the Saxon who had thrown Gawain down before, his grip on the knight's shoulder all too firm. "You'll be next, if you don't shut up."

"This will not continue." Dagonet, one of the more quiet knights, had unexpectedly spoken up, his eyes blazing now in the darkness.

"Did you talk back to a Saxon warrior, ye Roman's whore?" spat one of the Saxons who had been watching Galahad's rape. He bound toward the huddled mass of knights to strike Dagonet across the face, provoking Bors to that familiar rage.

"Don't you bloody touch him, you Saxon bastard," the knight warned, struggling to get to his feet, as three more Saxons came away from Galahad's circle of spectators to restrain him. Dagonet only lifted his head again to glare at the one who had struck him. And all the while, Cedric knelt on the earth of man's oppression and watched, the traces of a soft smile on his face. Those lips of his twitched when Gawain screamed his friend's name, when one of his own warriors grunted over Galahad's limp body, when Lancelot bobbed with the blood that bubbled up through his lips and the tatters of his clothing swayed with him. Those eyes set deep into a creased face glimmered when Dagonet's eyes blared like possessed fire, when Bors' screaming spit flew at the Saxons who held him back with more than enough force, when the mirth of his men reverberated throughout the otherwise empty woods. And when at last he lowered his gaze to Arthur, those twitching corners finally curled just enough for Arthur to heave with suffering and suppressed sobs, as the Roman looked up into Cedric's face.

"Now, you see," those Saxons eyes said. "I have won."

And Arthur felt the stars go out.


	4. Chapter 4:Blood

A/N: Well, here be Chapter 4. I like this, though once again, it's not as long as I want it to be. But all the same – packed with more angst and violence and all that good stuff. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you guys. You literally put a smile on my face. Your support is needed and very much valued. Thank you, thank you!

I wrote this chapter while listening to Tracks 2, 8, 9, 11, 12, and 13 on **_The Passion of the Christ _**soundtrack. So if you happen to own it, I recommend you read this while listening to those tracks, in order to get the right feel of this, the one I had while writing it.

**Please Read and Review**! Oh, and as I said in Chapter 3, my newest one-shots in other fandoms, please go check those out if you're into the fandoms! Thank you!

Oh – and GO READ ALL THE KA STUFF BY **ASHLEY A**! NOW! And REVIEW!

Nimue26: (smiles) thank you for the raving review, dear. If you have read any of my other work, you know there is yet so much more suffering to come for these men, though I promise I do love them. I assure you, none will escape unscathed. I don't even know if they will all make it out alive.... We'll see.

Simone: Thank you. I've never intended to make people cry, and I actually have a hard time imagining anyone actually weeping over a story, much less my own.

End-of-rainbow: thank you. Actually, that last chapter was full of Italian, and this one will be too. I will continue to use Italian simply because I can have it properly translated, unlike Latin. But I will use Latin too in the future. I too think it beautiful when Arthur prays.

Reice41: wow, thank you. I know I can't be that great, but thanks anyway. I don't know about wonderful, but even I must admit this to be tragic.

Camlann: thank you. Concerning the language, read my response to End-of-rainbow. Ah, but Galahad won't remain catatonic forever. That would be too merciful of me.... I suppose the prayers are all right – simple, anyway.

Shauna: Ah, my dear. You are too full of flatteries. I thank you deeply. It means a lot to have you for a supporter. Obviously, I don't think myself to be quite as wonderful as you say, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I only hope to please you with the rest of the story. Oh, and forgive me for being daft, but what did you mean by the H/C pair?

Allegra: Thank you.

Nienna unyarima: Thank you. Yes, Lancelot and Galahad are pretty. But they won't be the only ones to suffer. In fact, everyone has so far, though not all physically.

Stahlfan125: Thank you, dear. I looked into your Bio and saw you had me as your favorite fanfic author. (blushes) You're too sweet. Hope you like this.

Templa Otmena: Thank you. I saw and felt this story exactly as it is written, that unusual way things play out where so many of the victims are so much more calm than we would think anyone could be. I guess everyone just have different ways of emotionally dealing with things. The parallel of the Apostle John and Jesus struck me when it came to mind. I think it's a beautiful way to describe the relationship between Arthur and Lancelot as it was in that moment, and also interesting that Arthur would be considered the 'John' and Lancelot the 'Christ', when Arthur is actually the captain and leader and Lancelot the follower. Thank you for the advice on rating. I'm putting bold warnings in all the chapters now and I put a big one in the Summary as well, so hopefully no one unreasonable will report me or something. I really think it's unfair to blame the writers when the readers should have enough intelligence to use discretion or otherwise not read on this site.

Camreyn: Wow, you're too nice. (blushes) Of course, I have thought of publishing. It is my dream, my goal. I'm totally screwed forever if I don't publish, because all I want to devote my life to is writing. It's hard though. Sometimes I contemplate giving it all up and avoiding the failure and heartache. Again, I'm afraid there is more suffering to come, though I do not know how much. Thank you so much for your support. I hope you enjoy everything else you read of mine.

Elessar King: Thank you, dear. Hee, yes, evil. Let the wickedness continue.... Ah, the ocean is so beautiful and calm and therefore so right to use in this sort of context.

Wow, I actually got off my ass and answered all my reviewers. I don't know if I will for this chapter. This sort of thing is occasional and spontaneous. But know that I read them all several times and love you and appreciate you.

**Warning: The following text is rated a high PG13 – R for violence and language. Reader discretion advised. If you are under 13 or have a problem with violence and/or language, please go elsewhere or proceed with caution. You have been warned.**

* * *

Chapter 4: Blood

None of the knights knew how many Saxons had gone to Galahad and Lancelot. Most did not watch because it was too unbearable, and those closest to the two could not stop themselves from staring. Gawain was heaving with his unrelieved desperation to save Galahad, face red and streaming with tears. His chest rose and fell with his gasping breaths, his eyes burning with torment and unspeakable despair. His Galahad, his sweet Galahad, lay too still and too alive on the harsh surface of earth, bleeding and not knowing it, breaking Gawain's heart and not realizing it, dying and fading and never knowing. Gawain did not feel the Saxons claws gripping his shoulders, his arms, leaving bruises that were a mockery of his best friend's suffering. He wanted more, oh, how he wanted more. He wanted his flesh to turn black and blue and purple and green, his eyes to swell and shut out the nightmare, his bones to break and numb as if he were dead. He wanted to bleed, he wanted to bleed, he wanted to bleed.

_I bleed for you, Galahad._

He whispered.

Wild hair matted with insanity.

_I bleed for you, Arthur._

He whispered.

Black eyes burning out.

_I bleed for you, Lancelot._

He whispered.

Roman heart colored Roman scarlet.

But Gawain could not be satisfied when his only pain was that pain buried in the core of his chest, where no surgeon's hands could reach to mend. He could not be relieved until his flesh tore open and his own life poured out into the dust that he was destined to become, that Galahad was riding to on an imaginary stallion. He wanted to bleed. He wanted to suffer. He could not watch this happen to his Galahad and remain physically in tact. The guilt would consume him. He should have saved his friend. He should have done something.

And Arthur could not be released from his guilt either, from the fetters of agony that cut into his wrists as Lancelot lay star gazing like a marble statue, raped and beaten and beautiful. He didn't want Lancelot to be beautiful. He didn't want Lancelot to be immortal and frozen. He needed Lancelot to come back to life. But he was only a man. Only a man. How could he touch the knight and revive him? How could he breathe into the Sarmatian's aching lungs, when he had given up his own breath? He could do nothing, he realized, forcing himself up. On his knees, Arthur lifted his face to the heavens, bound hands in his lap.

"_Oh, Dio_," he shuddered, sorrow spilling from his gray eyes that shone up to where God should have been. "_Risparmiaci_." _Oh, God. Save us._

"He's not _listening_," strained one of the Saxons in a whining tone, and the others around him laughed. Arthur slowly lowered his head, shoulders caved in defeat, as they never should have been. The laughter echoed in his ears, firelight only reaching one half of his face, while the other was turned to darkness and Cedric's gaze.

"Do you have this much devotion to your knights?" Cedric asked quietly. "Or is it only your God that commands so much of your Roman love?" Arthur only turned his head to look at the Saxon, the shards of his eyes wavering, skin barely glowing with the remnants of tears that had not bled out the fire that was steadily killing him. It was the only answer he gave Cedric, and the Saxon grinned.

"Roman's whore," spat the last of the Saxons to defile Lancelot. He kicked the Sarmatian's side with a thud, but the knight only lay still and gazed at the stars. He did not hear the Saxon cackling or the way their boots scraped along in the dirt as they finally drew away from him. His eye glimmered at the night sky, and he did not move his sprawled limbs, as beaten and broken as they were. Blood oozed from his lips, staining the earth all around him, and his chest rose and fell too shallow and too involuntarily. His tunic hung tattered on him, and his leggings had been pushed back up to his hips, disheveled and strings undone. The light flinched in Arthur's eyes, his face too agonizing for Lancelot to look to.

"_L'amo_," he could hear Arthur whisper. _I love you. "L'amo, l'amo, l'amo."_ Callused hands cupped over his shoulder and his hip, arms wrapped around his limp form, cleft chin on his shoulder, head tucked into his neck, lips near his ear, chest moving against his back. _"L'amo." _He could feel the sweat beads rolling off his skin into the groove of Arthur's collarbone. The Roman nuzzled his neck, brow into his black curls. His blood painted Arthur red, like a true Roman, like a true mortal, like a true captain who sacrificed himself for his knights. The blood covered himself in death and glory and reality.

"_I give it to you,"_ he could hear his own murmur. _"Arthur, my brother." _He felt that battle-worn hand leave his shoulder, travel down his chest, and a glowing palm rested on his belly. He breathed again. All of the scarlet was washed away. All of the rape was wiped away. He turned his head into Arthur's and nuzzled back.

"That Roman's been keeping a mighty treasure all to himself out in these wilds," said the same Saxon who had last defiled Lancelot. More mirth arose from the Saxons, who gave nods and words of agreement. "And who's next, I wonder?" He stepped out toward the rest of the knights, who sat huddled together, burning with hatred and yet also convicted by fear for the first time in a long while. The Saxon beast was eyeing them all hungrily, face flushed in the aftermath of his pleasuring. At last, Cedric rose to his feet.

"Tomorrow, we sort through these prisoners," he said, as he approached his men. "Take the pretty ones for our pleasure and kill the rest." All of the Saxons broke out into wide, savage smirks. Cedric only gave a small smile himself. "Slowly, of course." His warriors gave a cheer, and those who still held to their spears beat the earth with the bases.

"My lord," began the Saxon who had addressed the grounded knights, "the night is yet early. Why not begin now?"

"Yes, the night is yet early," agreed Cedric, "but it is too dark to continue properly now. We wait for first light. Take rest now. Pleasure cannot be had to the fullest if you're tired." More chuckling, accompanied by nods of obedience.

"Oh, Lancelot," Arthur whimpered, reaching his beloved knight at last. New tears jumped fresh from his lashes, and though his hands were bound, he reached out and caressed Lancelot's curls as best he could. The knight did not look at him.

"Yes, that's right, Roman," called one of the Saxons, leading Cedric to peer of his shoulder with a bemused grin. "Crawl to your whore." The others laughed.

Arthur grimaced with tears as one dewdrop leaked from the corner of Lancelot's eye. "Look at me," the Roman shuddered. "Lancelot, look at me." His tone was quiet and pleading, sick with grief. His knight would not hear him. Arthur bent to cover Lancelot's body, arms failing to break free from their binds and wrap around the Sarmatian. His shoulders only caved and shook instead. He wept deeply, too consumed by grief to kindle the rage due to the Saxons. It should have been Lancelot weeping into Arthur's body, but the knight was the one offering minuscule comfort to his captain.

"Galahad," whispered Gawain, finally released from Saxon hands and having reached the abandoned body of his best friend. The younger knight's head lay to one side, arms limp and legs left moderately parted. His skirt of pleated metal had fallen back down on his thighs once more, blood drying where reflected light should have shone. More crimson was frozen in mid-drip from the corner of his lips. Gawain yearned to warm those ashen cheeks with his own burning touch, but his hands remained bound at his back. Instead, he squeezed his eyes to force out tears, when already he had cried so many, and they landed like a summer rain, not like the sort that this island of his captivity plagued him with. They dotted Galahad's face, carrying words of murmured love when Gawain could not bring himself to speak any longer; thus the older knight painted his sacred canvas.

Galahad lifted his eyes open for a moment, green pools glazed with death, and he seemed a child in the shadow of Gawain's bent form. His elder friend sucked in a breath, and a silence passed between them, somehow undisturbed and unconcerned by all that surrounded them.

"I dreamt of you," Galahad breathed. The blood melted and finished its course down over his jaw, hitting the dirt in slow motion, soundless. Gawain searched his eyes, leaning closer and closer with the passing of each sand grain second. He wanted to say 'I love you.' He wanted to lie all of those pretty lies about it being all right and the knights escaping their captors. He wanted to apologize when he had done nothing. He wished he were the moon so that he could curl around Galahad and cradle him though his arms were bound. All of this, he conveyed through his own broken orbs, and Galahad read him with a fevered wonder, as a child who makes sense of words for the first time. Before Gawain could answer him, Galahad closed his eyes once more, like he had accepted death, and the wind blew at his lashes as if they were feathers. Gawain was left with silent, moving lips.

Arthur moved like a tinted memory up Lancelot's belly until his head rested over the knight's heart. And there he stopped to tremble, listening to the only hope that was left in this darkness. He panted for breath, shutting his eyes to see flashes of a distant past. Lancelot. The lavender veils. Yes, he remembered. Smiling, laughing. Chase the imagined. Floating. Floating. Lavender. Beautiful. Sunlight. He didn't know when he had last felt sunlight. Perhaps the sun had imploded.

"Don't be childish," he chided Lancelot. Laughter. Waving veil. The knight hooked his neck with it, pulling his grin closer.

"Caught you," the knight said. Glittering eyes. Gone.

"Run while you still have the chance," he warned his friend, arm reaching past Lancelot's waist, fingers curling into another veil, pulling it to him. Lancelot smiled and turned his back on his captain, veil sliding around Arthur's neck and finally leaving. He fled, too slowly to be real, and Arthur caught him. Lavender trapping around the waist. Lancelot turning. Laughter. Embrace. Bellies touching. Veil falling – around Arthur's shoulders.

He opened his eyes. No lavender. Only darkness.

Arthur didn't turn his head when Tristan leapt to his feet, a stiletto flashing up from his boot like reversed lightning. Ropes had fallen soundlessly to the earth from his wrists. The nearest Saxon fell dead, his throat slit, blood pouring forth after the initial gush. Droplets flecked Tristan's cheek, and he smiled inwardly. The others didn't give him much more time after that first Saxon went down. They seized him before he could kill anymore, and the rest who weren't near enough to lend their hands only yelled in outrage and surprise. The dead Saxons already had death's look in his eyes. Tristan was smirking, hair swaying. The blade hit the ground. Last rebellion.

"Bloody pagan dog," spat one of the Saxons, as some of his comrades restrained Tristan, who wasn't even struggling.

"Ye not exactly one to be callin' us pagans," Bors grunted, though he had been trying to hide his grin only a second before. "Yer no pack of Christians."

"Shut up," the Saxon snapped vehemently.

"What should we do with him, milord?" asked another of the beasts. Cedric pulled something from his belt and threw it to the ground in reply, still as nonchalant as he had been before Tristan's outburst.

"You know what to do," he said. His warrior broke into a smirk, striding to pick up the object, gravel crunching under his boots.

"Thank ye, milord," he said in a low tone, his fingers touching the gift as he inclined his head. Cedric's eyes only glinted in reply. The other Saxon straightened and turned back to return to Tristan. "To the ground with him," he barked at his comrades, who promptly threw the knight to the dirt with as much force as they could muster.

"Wait," Cedric said, and his men looked up at once. "Best do it at that stump yonder." He tilted his head to the right, and they looked over, smiled, and shoved Tristan along the dirt toward the stump. "And take care of that body," Cedric added, as they passed.

"Now, you're going to pay for that, bitch," growled the Saxon, as his comrades bound the knight's hands once more and tied his arms to the stump. Once finished, they backed away, leaving only the gifted Saxon to stand near Tristan, a devious glint in his eyes. He took a few steps over, stopping when he was behind the knight. The whip hissed as it unfurled in the air and cracked when it met Tristan's back. His unprepared body jolted once, but he knew enough to brace himself immediately afterward.

"Ye devil's bastards!" Bors exclaimed, getting to his feet only to be restrained by the nearest Saxons. They forced him down again, and he did not see Dagonet's understanding look.

Tristan gritted his teeth when the whip hit him again, knowing he was far from being broken or overwhelmed by pain. He would last long, too long. And when the whip came down again, he shut his eyes and hung his head. He would not look at Arthur or the other knights, would not give the Saxons the satisfaction of seeing the sting in his eyes. He had to be strong for Lancelot. For Galahad.

"The knight is too strong to complain," said one of the Saxon spectators, a wide grin on his face. He tipped his goblet of wine on his lips. "Perhaps we shouldn't be so kind with him." His comrades gave a cheer, and the whip quickened, hardened in its blow. Tristan only gave a few jerks, biting his lip now and drawing blood. The welts crossed and overlapped on his back. Lancelot. Galahad. Lancelot. Galahad.

Only he heard the hawk cry. At last, he opened his eyes, and her own flashed at him from beyond, in the darkness of a tree branch. At this, he gave a faint smile, one that no one understood, and he did not close his eyes again. He did not flinch, he did not whimper, and still the whip came down. He didn't hear Dagonet cry out for the Saxon to stop or see the cowering knight still kneeling below his risen comrade. Only those yellow eyes filled his sight, holding his head up, leveling him.

"Damn you to hell," Bors cried, throttling the whipping Saxon, as Dagonet kicked the Saxons who had restrained his friend to the ground. Bors started beating his boots into the Saxon who was too stunned to collect himself, and Tristan heaved, back gleaming with blood and sweat and angry welts. His eyes fell closed as he gasped and gave another strange smile. The hawk watched him still.

"That's enough," Cedric decided aloud, as his men seized Bors and pushed him, struggling, back to his place next to Dagonet, who they struck across the face. "Let him free." As the Saxon got to his feet, wiping blood from his lip where a rock had scratched it, his eyes blazed with anger that apparently would not be relieved this night. The whip lay on the earth, its length curled many times over. Two Saxons passed him and cut Tristan away from the trunk, before dragging him back to where he had been sitting beside Bors, leaving him. The wounded knight heaved next to his comrade, who replaced anger with concern.

"Ye all right, lad?" he asked. Tristan only grinned through his panting. He lifted his head, caught the flash in the darkness ahead, beyond the glade's perimeter.

"We will be," he said. But none of the others had seen that flash.


	5. Chapter 5:Dreams

A/N: Yay. Here's Chapter 5. Not a lot goes on, except for some emotional self-torture, if you know what I mean. Hey, any excuse for flaff, right? Anyway, thank you so much to all of my readers and reviewers. Love you all. Hope this is all good with you. I'm feeling sort of down at the moment. I wouldn't say depressed, because I'm depressed – or, at least I have been in the past – a great deal, and this isn't nearly so major. So I'm just down: because subconsciously, I am reviewing my future as a waitress with a lot of shit on paper shoved into a box that I use for eating on in my shit apartment because I suck and because writing professionally makes winning the lottery look like a promise. So yeah. My life is going to suck. Well, it sucks now. But it will suck later too, just with booze and freedom added into the whole equation. Oh, and money too. Sort of.

Anyway. Now that I've shared that lovely thought with all of you, I will not hold you from this chapter any longer.

Please Read and Review! You make me not killing myself almost seem like a worthwhile thing. And plus, since the next chapter should be much more exciting and significant, reviews would probably stimulate the Muse more in order to produce a better chapter. Yeah, maybe that's bullcrap, but you never know.

* * *

Chapter 5: Dreams

They had put out the fires and settled down to sleep for what was left of the night, and a few remained on watch for a while. Most of the knights fell into a relieving slumber themselves, not realizing the guards had dozed off as well, after an hour or so. To those who could not escape into unconsciousness, the snoring of their captors was only a cruel reminder of their situation's impossibility. One move, and the whole camp would be up, bearing arms, and Arthur didn't even want to imagine what might happen then. All he could do was hold Lancelot's limp body to his own, having dragged the knight closer to the others, to where he had knelt when Lancelot had been violated. The night was too black for any of the other men, Saxon and Sarmatian alike, to be anything more than silhouettes, shadows that melted into each other and muddled the shapes of both the familiar and the detested bodies. The Roman knew that Gawain had pulled Galahad back to his place near the rest of the Round Table, but none of his comrades dared speak unto him when he was in such a state. Tristan had eased himself to the ground -- despite the deep, repressed, collective urges of his fellow knights to lend their chests – and had already sunk into sleep as if nothing had happened to him. Bors had grimaced at Dagonet, before the quieter knight had lain down, and he had patted Tristan's boot but missed the flickering smile of the hawk-tamer.

Gawain was a deliberately formed statue, cradling Galahad as if it were his life's purpose. He kept the head of curls nestled against his shoulder, his fingers immersed in his friend's hair and arms wrapped protectively around the younger knight's battered body. He would not let go again. They would have to cut his arms off first. And if they did, he would offer his throat or his heart, his head or his back and every vein in his body to save Galahad, if only for an extra hour. If only for an extra minute, he would do it. He could not sit idle any longer. His Galahad was crying out for salvation, and if his own blood would grant it, Gawain would have peace in his suffering. A sigh escaped his parted lips. Oh, yes, he would have peace in suffering. Already, he envisioned the whip burning into his flesh, tearing through skin and muscle. His bones were broken and his body beaten until it looked liked the depths of the sea. He could even – he could even imagine his own violation, though he did not have the capacity to _know_ what that crime was truly like to endure. But he would endure it. He should have already, in Galahad's place.

"Oh, Galahad," he whimpered, tears spilling into the beloved curls. His eyes did not lay closed in an attempt for sleep. It was instead because of the consuming guilt that the truth brought, the truth of his failure. He had failed to save Galahad. He had failed to uphold his loyalty, to do his job. He was supposed to protect his fellow knights. How could he call himself Galahad's friend when he had simply allowed the Saxons to hold him back when the boy was being defiled before his very eyes? No, he was no friend. He was no friend at all, and his worst fear, even more than Galahad's death or repeated violation or suffering, was that they would make it out alive and free only for Galahad to remember that failure. And Galahad, as any man had the right to, would hate him. His heart froze over at the thought of that hatred. And yet, as much as it massacred his soul, Gawain would willingly take that hatred, if only they did not touch Galahad again.

And Galahad dreamed. Despite all his torment, his mind retreated into dreams that misted over with incoherence. He was in a tinted field, wheat swaying all around him and brushing at his knees. It seemed to stretch out forever on all sides of him, yet he could still see mountains in the distance but knew not where he was. Flash, and Gawain's smile appeared and disappeared, leaving him breathless. He began to step forward. Flash. Faster footsteps. Flash. He was running. And suddenly, something struck him harshly, causing him to stagger, but he could not see his attacker. Flash, and he kept running, the wind dipping down into the wheat faster and deeper as his legs carried him. When was he going to reach the center? Why could he not find the center of this field? Flash, flash, flash. Those familiar eyes gleamed, beckoning him, but as he ran, the blows came again. He could not fight someone he could not see, nor could he take hold of a flash, like water it was, slipping through the cracks in his hands.

"Gawain," he breathed, refusing to give up. Onward, he ran, seeming no closer to the middle. Gawain was fleeing him, he realized. His eyes shone, head bobbing with each step that pounded into loose soil and sent it rising upward, not high enough to exceed the wheat. Flash, strike, run. Gawain, a blow, steps that brought him nowhere.

A scream pierced his ears, sent him stumbling back. It reverberated through his dream, and it seemed so familiar. Flash. Gawain wasn't smiling anymore. The scream came again, and at last he saw Lancelot, body beautiful and rigid against wood, flame rising up to caress his face. His head was thrown back, black tresses dripping onto his shoulders and down his neck, chest thrust out and heaving as he screamed and screamed and screamed. Galahad was brought to his knees, moment by moment, hands pressed in vain against his ears. And Gawain's face looked to him in childish confusion, as if questioning, but he did not have an answer.

"Lancelot," Arthur wailed, on his knees and red cloak splayed out all around him, flowing from his shoulders. He could not reach his beloved knight, the flames like a wall between them. And just as Galahad prepared for another ear-piercing scream, Lancelot lowered his head with a gentle look in his dark eyes. They locked with Arthur's gray, tear-glazed pools, and the only sound was Arthur's panting. When Lancelot closed his eyes with the traces of a smile, the fire covered him.

Galahad grew dizzy, eyelids drooping as he swayed with the wheat. The smoke he could not smell or feel was filling his lungs. Lancelot's life laced that smoke. Suddenly, Gawain was tearing through the field toward him. Flash, flash, desperation. He was swaying. He was falling into darkness... The earth welcomed him when he sunk below the wheat. The wind touched his curls but his body lay hidden in the fields, where no one could find him because the wheat had no end.

Lancelot began to roll onto his side, arm outstretching to hook around Arthur and pull himself closer to his captain. Arthur immediately moved closer, guiding Lancelot's arm around his own form, and when they at last came together, both closed their eyes with a sigh of satisfaction. Arthur cradled Lancelot's head to his shoulder, arm against the knight's back. They lay pressed together, taking comfort in each other when nothing else seemed to offer any hope. When Lancelot finally began to weep, Arthur refused his own tears and gripped to his strength for Lancelot's sake, hushing the knight as he stroked through the black curls. He shifted after a while, taking Lancelot in both of his arms, gently. The knight bit his lip at every throb of pain that came when he was moved, weeping because he had finally accepted what had happened to him and because Arthur had failed to hold out any longer and had joined him in tears. He didn't understand why, but something about the Roman's erratic heartbeat and stifled sobs and shaking chest made him feel like Arthur was at least one man in the world who shared his pain, so that he wouldn't have to bear it alone. He suppressed a sob and bowed his head into Arthur's shoulder, tears pouring from his squeezed eyes.

"I love you," Arthur whispered in the Sarmatian's ear, his cheek against Lancelot's and their tears mingled. Lancelot said nothing in return but nudged his body into Arthur's, arm still encircling his friend. He knew he had a responsibility to ease Arthur's pain, just as much as the Roman had to ease his. And even more than the fact that he had been raped, knowing Arthur was in such agony for him was more of a wound than anything. Perhaps the knights deserved hell for being pagans or punishment for their sins, but Arthur, despite his bloodstained sword, was a man who should have nothing but God's blessing. And to think that he was the reason for Arthur's pain was too much for Lancelot, on top of his rape. His tiny whimper went unheard to all except for Arthur, who also felt the knight's kiss of gratitude on his soaking shoulder. Arthur's heart tendered at the gesture, and he moved his head to Lancelot's other shoulder, so that was his face against the dirt instead. His hand smoothed large circles on Lancelot's back, and he returned the kiss on Lancelot's shoulder. The knight buried his face in the Roman's neck, and they remained still until sleep welcomed them, save for the sporadic chest spasms.

When they woke, the lavender twilight had returned, and Arthur moved away from Lancelot just enough to face him. They held a silent gaze, eyes gleaming faintly and tear tracks in their pale faces. Arthur lifted his hand to lay over the side of Lancelot's face, fingers creeping into black curls, thumb running over the same patch of skin. He gave his knight a meaningful look, and Lancelot shut his eyes as he tilted his head and moved close to Arthur again. As they rested, on the threshold of sleep, each reminded the other of a distant, happy memory. Arthur took in Lancelot's faded scent and almost smiled when he remembered an afternoon long ago, when the knights had been given a break at Hadrian's Wall.

"Arthur," the knight had whined and half-laughed, when his captain had sneaked up on him and tied a black blindfold over his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Amusing myself," the Roman had answered with a sly grin, taking Lancelot by the hand and leading him swiftly out into the crisp autumn air, out to the stables. In the next minute, Lancelot was sitting in front of him on Arthur's horse, half-smiling like a complete fool with that blindfold on. Arthur had set out with his arms around the knight to grasp the reins, and they had ridden into the fields south of the Wall.

"All right, one moment," Arthur had said, after letting Lancelot down where they had stopped. The knight stood waiting for whatever it was Arthur had planned, a slight tinge of dread in his stomach. "Lancelot!" Arthur had cried in apparent dismay, and his horse had shrieked right after, followed by a thud. Lancelot had stopped smiling.

"Arthur?" he had called out. Silence. "Arthur?" His voice had been shaken and frightened, as he had swiped the air blindly for his friend, not thinking to take off the blindfold quite yet. "Arthur!" he had exclaimed, truly in a panic. In the next moment, however, someone had thrown himself at the knight's legs, sending Lancelot to the ground with a huff. Arthur's laughter had rung out loud as Lancelot had pulled off the blindfold. "You bastard!" he had hissed, smacking his captain, but Arthur's mirth had not been deterred. "You bloody scared me, you know that?" Lancelot had said, a tint of hurt in his tone.

"Oh, but it was good fun," Arthur had pacified, calming. "You care," he said with an air of melodrama. "I'm touched." Lancelot smacked him again, and he chuckled. "Oh, don't be bitter. Come on," Arthur had coaxed, pulling Lancelot into a hug. "It was only a joke. I'm fine, calm down." They had spent another hour or two lying in the swaying, tall grass. Arthur could still see the hue of gold the field had been all around them, and he almost smiled.

Lancelot remembered something else, however, with his lashes fluttering once against Arthur's tunic. The memory was an evening from last winter, when he had returned late from a patrol. Woads had attacked him and his band of comrades again, and one of the men who had returned had reported to Arthur that he had seen Lancelot go down. However, what he had not known was that Lancelot had only been knocked out. Believing him to be dead, the Woads had not bothered with him after that and the knights had thought him lost. When at last he awoke, only the bodies of his dead enemies and friends lay around him, not too many knights, thankfully. After having gone through them to see who had fallen from the Round Table, he had begun the walk back to the Wall, not arriving until the next evening. Needless to say, Arthur had been heart broken all the while, and when the knight appeared in the Round Table chamber after dinner had been finished, he was received with shocked glances and eyes swimming with relief, ending at last with knowing grins. Arthur had risen from his seat, gaping, and had thrown his arms around Lancelot. He had kissed the knight on each cheek, as Romans do, and the knight had flushed in surprise.

"I thought you lost," Arthur had said, and Lancelot had easily heard the tremble in his voice. He had only smiled after a moment.

"You care," he had echoed. "I'm touched." And Arthur's emotional expression had changed to amusement.

"Smart ass," Arthur had murmured, and Lancelot had smirked, pleased with himself.

"Arthur," came Lancelot's whisper, numb with a fast falling tear. His eyes stared blankly at the twilight mists and the forest silhouettes. The fog was lavender, he realized, and his heart gave a tremor that made him feel ill. A second tear. A third tear.

"Lancelot?" the Roman breathed in reply, almost too quiet for the knight to hear. Callused hand moved over tattered tunic, smoothing wrinkles but failing to take away bruises and cuts. He could hear the earth's breath with his ear pressed to the surface, and he wished Lancelot's heartbeat would drown it out. He wished Lancelot would regain his strength and not feel like a limp and dying flower in his arms, so beautiful and tragic, water in his embrace and against his chest. He caressed the petals of Lancelot's hair as if he knew the knight was fading at that very moment and in the next breath, he would be holding an empty vessel. "I want to save you, Lancelot," he cried. "I want to save you, but I can't. I can't." And the knight said nothing in reply, going utterly limp in Arthur's hold. "I can't," Arthur sobbed, shaking. He began to rock his beloved Lancelot back and forth, just barely, in the dust. Lancelot's tears fell freely when the rest of the knight was in an unbreakable cage, and he did not have the heart to tell Arthur to stop the rocking. He wanted stillness because the dead did not move.

"A star hung over Bethlehem," Arthur began, making Lancelot sob at the familiar lullaby. "And the shepherds gathered and the three Wise Men. The little Lord Jesus lay in his crib. From evil King Herod, the Lord lay hid. And Mary sang to him, 'Don't cry, my baby, don't cry." His voice was shattered into quivering pieces of glass, and he was breaking Lancelot's heart all over again. "Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. Don't cry, baby." Lancelot wanted to empty his innards. He wanted Tristan's stiletto to end his misery. "Don't cry. I won't let you die. Baby, I won't let you die." It wasn't a lullaby anymore. It was Arthur's whisper to his broken Lancelot. To his baby.

_But I want to die, Arthur_, Lancelot thought. The lavender mists shifted in his gaze. _I want to_.

"Baby," whispered Arthur, the tune failing his lips. "You're my baby." He began to calm, drifting to sleep in the way he breathed, fingers still stroking Lancelot's curls.

"I'm a man," Lancelot said, once Arthur slept, tears curving down his nose. "Just a man, Arthur. Forgive me." And he closed his eyes at last, hoping with all that was left of him to pass in his sleep and not wake to see the twilight again. Even if that meant losing Arthur forever. And Lancelot dreamed.

"_I, Lancelot of Sarmatia, pledge my allegiance to you, Artorious Castus, and to the Holy Roman Empire for a service of fifteen years and promise also to uphold the code of chivalry." _

"_Thus, it is by the power vested in me by the Lord God that I dub thee Sir Lancelot, knight of the Round Table." Excalibur touched both of Lancelot's shoulders, and Arthur stepped down to his new knight, sheathing his sword. He took Lancelot's bowed head in both of his hands, tenderly, and leaned to kiss the black curls. _

"_I am yours forever, Arthur," the knight whispered; only a boy of seventeen, his eyes closed modestly as if he believed in the Christians' God. And at these words, Arthur, a young man of nineteen, suppressed a smile and tears of overwhelming pride at the day of the Round Table knighting. He moved his lips lower, pressing softly at the top of Lancelot's brow, and the knight did not open his bright eyes. He only waited, a portrait of knelt fealty. And every man knew that day what Lancelot had murmured to Arthur, though they had not heard the words. They knew, as they stood proudly at Lancelot's back, already knighted, that they were Arthur's, the knights of the Round Table, and that fifteen years meant nothing to them when it came to their captain. _

"Yours," Lancelot said in his sleep, broken heart pulled into the warmth of Arthur's chest against his.

"_And I, Artorious Castus, pledge my allegiance to you, knights of the Round Table, and promise to lead you well and with my protection," the Roman said, once Lancelot had risen, eyes sparkling at him. Already, he had taken his place at Arthur's right hand, and both faced the other men, a new band of warriors for Rome. _

_You were supposed to protect him. _A knife slid soundlessly into Arthur's heart, a new wound, a new guilt. He had broken his promise.

"_Lancelot!" The rain poured forth from floodgates of heaven, turning Britain into a muddy, gray mess. The people of Hadrian's Wall had already retreated into their rooms, waiting out the summer storm, but Lancelot had run outside like a child, laughing as Arthur chased after him. The knight eluded the Roman, however, and Arthur could not stop Lancelot from leaving the Wall's gates and venturing to the lush, green hills on the south side. "Lancelot, stop. Don't be childish," the captain pleaded, struggling up the slick hill when Lancelot had already bound over the other side. "We're already soaked," he whined, boots splattered with mud. When he reached the other side of the hill, Lancelot was standing at the bottom, not yet climbing the next hill, and he turned to face Arthur with a glistening smile. _

"_It's glorious," he shouted, the rain too heavy for anyone to speak normally. Arthur stumbled down toward him, and Lancelot grabbed his hand, pulling him up to the knight. In the next moment, the two stood together, Lancelot's fingers pressed to Arthur's lips, silencing him. "It's a secret," he said quietly, before pressing his own lips to his fingers, so that they were sandwiched between rain-beaded petals. He did not last long before a stifled giggle arrived, and Arthur rolled his eyes, turning to leave. Yet once he reached the bottom of the hill, Lancelot threw himself at the Roman, sending both to the ground. The knight laughed out loud, rolling off of his captain, as Arthur groaned and turned on his back, mud now coating his tunic and the right side of his face. They lay together in the grass, at the bottom of that hill, and let the rain soak into their bones. Lancelot's hand slipped into Arthur's once they were forced to close their eyes, and eventually, he dropped his head to Arthur's shoulder, wet curls clinging to his skin and his friend's. _

Lancelot wished it would rain now. Arthur's shoulders were already damp with Sarmatian tears and the earth already soaked with blood. But Lancelot wished it would rain. Arthur wanted to wake up in the sun and discover all of this to be a nightmare, just a nightmare. He would find Lancelot curled in white linens beside him, sleeping in the pale light, and his other knights would appear one by one in his doorway, smiling. He wished he could open his eyes and not want to wake Lancelot and disturb the knight's peace. But Lancelot wished for rain.


	6. Chapter 6:Sin

A/N: Yay! Finally, this chapter is finished and posted. I am such an evil bitch for it, too. But I hope you like it anyway! Thank you to all of my wonderful readers and reviewers, for all of your support and encouragement. It means more than you know. 

While writing this, I listened to **_The Passion of Christ_ soundtrack (tracks 2, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12), _Skellig _**by Loreena McKennit, **_Braveheart _**the soundtrack (**tracks 1, 2, and 4), **and **_Deora ar mo Chroi _**by Enya. If you have any of any of those, I suggest you listen to them.

Also, both **Latin _and _Italian** is used in this chapter. Again, for any of you who know Latin, the Latin in this text isn't correct, because no online translator gives verb conjugations and proper grammar and all that. The Italian, however, is correct in its entirety. As for why Arthur speaks Italian in this fic, there's an explanation, but I've already kept you too long from reading. Whether it's historically accurate or not, who knows. The movie and what I learned in history could be considered contradictory, and hell, no one knows for sure when Arthur and his knight really lived. So, yeah.

Please Read and Review! Thank you!

**Note: No CONSENSUAL sexual or romantic interaction takes place between the Knight of the Round Table. No homosexual attraction exists between them specifically. If you have any doubts, do some research on the history of "Romantic Friendship". Everyone has the right to interpret things how they want to, of course. But please, don't tell me this is slash as if I don't know what I'm writing. **

**WARNING: The following chapter is rated R for adult themes and light sexuality. If you are under 13 or have a problem with violence, sexuality, or language, please choose another story to read. You have been warned. Please use reader's discretion. **

**

* * *

Chapter 6: Sin**

He was riding through the green hills of his isle captor, curls bouncing with each hoof meeting the earth. His arms were wrapped around Arthur, and the Roman looked like any other man, without his armor or his scarlet cloak. Only in leather and cloth did the two men ride, and both wanted for naught when they had each other's body close. Their hearts coupled as one, like two doves in trembling flight, and they did not have a need for words. Lancelot lay his head on the back of Arthur's shoulder, smiling against the leather, as Arthur grinned faintly to himself. They did not know pain in their solitude, not when it was only the two of them in the hills, away from all humanity but the green earth. Lancelot wished they might never return to the Wall, but that instead they would ride away into the wilds, where the mists bore them away into myth. In that place, alone and undisturbed by any duty, he might love Arthur freely and without any hazard of loss or any wall preventing him from affection. Only their eyes would embrace, and only each other's body would they have for warmth in the winters, wrapped in the same fur skin. Beyond that mist, Lancelot could love Arthur, and Arthur could love Lancelot; no war or woman or duty would trouble them. No call for glory or honor would come for them. They could be as one soul, brothers in their own world, with love to sustain them in hunger, thirst, and need for touch. Yes, thought Lancelot with his head against Arthur's leather, that would be heaven, the one Arthur believed in.

But when Lancelot opened his eyes, he wasn't on Arthur's horse in the hills. The Roman was still asleep, brow against his, looking cold. Lancelot did not smile or speak but only gazed at Arthur's face, so close to his own. The Roman's cloak was splayed over them both, though more over Lancelot, and Arthur's arm was heavy on Lancelot's waist, hand limp with fingertips touching his friend's back. Lancelot's hand was curled in Arthur's, the Roman's thumb in his palm and other fingers curled over into it too. The Sarmatian felt leaden and numb, suspecting Galahad to be sleeping in Gawain's cradle-body at his back. He hoped Tristan's wounds were starting to heal, that someone had managed to dress them in some way. He could barley remember the hawk-tamer's whipping; it was like a fragment of something that could have been a memory but might have been a dream. He had a feeling his friend was not fortunate enough for the latter.

Eyes closed, exhale. Vision of snow and naked trees, far away. He was standing with Arthur, alone in their frozen glade of surreal peace, his gloved hands cupped in the Roman's. Each stood tall, red cloak and black cloak, heads bowed to look upon their fingers. Arthur held his hands as if they were his beating heart instead, and after a long moment, the Roman brought those hands to his lips and kissed the leather. He watched his captain with shining eyes, breath white in the air. Arthur's eyes met his, and scarlet fluttered before him, like the night he lay weeping in darkness with it wrapped around him because he thought Arthur dead.

"Lancelot." His name sounded like a stranger, gray eyes holding his own. His folded hands were brought against Arthur's belly, and another white breath puffed from his lips. "_Inquam nunquam te valere iubre_." _I will never say good-bye to you. _Lancelot's brow crinkled.

Scarlet veil, shroud of darkness.

"No!" the Roman screamed, as they burned his Lancelot. Whether with flame or whips, he could not tell, and it did not matter. Lifeless, the knight flowed into his hands afterward, dark eyes fallen and curls pulling his fingers in. The face was sculpted for his hands, those cheeks were made to carry his tears earthward, and those shut eyes had first been brought to burn into his.

"How sad it is I was born a knight," Lancelot had murmured, lying wounded in Arthur's arms and smiling sadly.

"Why?" Arthur had asked, voice shaking. "Why would you say that?"

"If I were God, you would love me." And Arthur's eyes had burst with tears.

"Lancelot," he had whimpered, caressing those curls as Lancelot had smiled that sad smile still. "I do love you. I do, more than anyone on this earth does. Don't you know why I worship God?" Lancelot had barely shook his head. "I worship God because it is He who formed my eyes, that I may look upon you. It is He who made lips, that I may proclaim my love for you. It is He who formed my heart, that it may beat for you all the hours He bestows upon me as precious gifts to live in your presence, that I might love you. Oh, Lancelot." The knight had begun to weep freely then, trembling in his Arthur's hold. "I worship Him and praise Him and thank Him because He gave _you_ to me. And I ask Him to protect you and to make you happy and to help you understand instead of being angry with me. I asked Him to make you understand, but you have not. How could you not think I love you?" He had sobbed and quaked, looking to the sky.

"I'm sorry," Lancelot had whispered.

"Don't you ever say that again," Arthur had almost shouted, ignoring the apology. "Don't you ever regret who you are. Don't you ever wish you were someone else to have my love because you have it." He had pulled Lancelot up into an embrace, the knight's head on his shoulder. "You have it." The curls' scent had invaded him.

Eyes open. Inhale.

"Up!" A Saxon's rumbling voice disrupted the morning, the accent resembling that of the North, where the blue people resided. "Up, ye bloody sluggards!" The camp groaned in an array of pitches, and shadows began to rise under the scrutiny of the waker.

"All right, men," Cedric began, stepping up alongside the other Saxon. "Today, we move out. We ride south, toward the Wall, but we cannot go too quickly. Prisoners must accompany, of course. They'll have to go on foot, however. Ye all better be keeping an eye them. Anyone who loses us a man is liable to be – punished." His tone turned from husky to conspiring, and the Saxons only chuckled amongst themselves in reply.

"And what, exactly, do you intend to do once you've reached our Wall?" Tristan questioned, as calmly as ever and standing. He waited for an answer, hands still bound before him and tunic in tatters yet with eyes focused.

"Why, what do you think, Sir Knight?" said Cedric. "Rape, murder, pillage, and plunder, of course." The Saxons laughed lightly around him. "Oh, and I forgot burn. Yes, we'll certainly burn something of your Wall once we're through with the previously mentioned tasks." His lips curled into an evil smirk.

They were forced to their feet and began to struggle along through the forest. Arthur held Lancelot to him, Gawain mirrored him with Galahad, but Tristan carried himself tall and gave no sign that the welts stung. All the while, the Saxons pushed and shoved the knights, barking insults and threats on them and Hadrian's Wall. For hours, they plodded through the wood, until Galahad and Lancelot were only held up by Gawain and Arthur, mustering the strength to move their legs only because of their friend's whispered encouragement.

"Come on, baby. Just a little bit further," Arthur murmured to his fevered knight, whose head was lolling against his chest, hip digging into his thigh and weight pulling down at his shoulders. Lancelot's eyes fluttered open and closed and back again, as he forced his legs to move inch by inch. He felt terribly nauseous and light-headed, and his ribs ached. He wanted to stop, not caring what the Saxons did to him, just so long as he could rest and breathe for a while. His body was a mess of woven bruises and blood-encrusted skin.

"Please, Arthur," he managed to choke, at last. "Stop, please. I can't do this. I have to rest."

"Just a little further, Lancelot," answered the Roman. "We can't stop until they decide. They'll harm you, otherwise."

"I care not. I can't keep up with this for much longer." It would have been frantic had Lancelot had any energy, but Arthur heard it anyway, pulling Lancelot closer and silently praying for relief.

"We're all going to die out here," said Galahad, a strange smile accompanying his words. His head hung to his chest, eyes closed, one arm around Gawain's shoulders and the other around Dagonet's. His boots were nearly dragging limply along the dirt, as his two comrades helped him onward.

"Don't say such things," Dagonet warned, tone quiet and eyes scanning the wood around him.

"You're going to be all right," said Gawain. "And so will the rest of us." Even he knew it was false hope when he spoke.

"If I'm going to be all right after this, then I'm a bloody god." No one answered the youngest knight.

After what seemed like days, the Saxons finally came to a halt and Cedric's ordered them to stop for a rest in his rumbling tone. Gear was thrown down to the earth with heavy thuds, and Lancelot collapsed, sinking fast before Arthur caught him and eased him down slowly. Dagonet let Galahad go, and the younger knight sagged against Gawain, head dropping to his best friend's shoulder. Gawain lowered himself down with Galahad in his hold and looked up to see Tristan standing still and unmoving. He wondered if the hawk-tamer did so out of possible pain in those wounds, as Dagonet returned to Bors, who clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Did ye like the stroll, bitch?" taunted one of the Saxons when he struck Lancelot across the face, sending him out of Arthur's arms and into the dirt. The Roman punched his enemy before he could think, as Lancelot groaned when he rolled over slowly onto his back. The Saxon stumbled back, but some of his comrades flocked to restrain Arthur, hitting him back, while still more huddled around Lancelot's body. Arthur tried to reach his knight, unable to see what they were doing, which was binding the Sarmatian's wrists again, but only managed a stifled sound of panic. Cedric watched, smirking. When the Saxons came away from Lancelot, he lay with head to one side, breathing heavily. Arthur stared at him with widened eyes, but the knight wouldn't look at him.

"Go on, boys," Cedric roared. "Take your pleasure."

"No!" Arthur wailed. "Please, no." The mirth of the Saxons was silenced by his outburst. Upon his knees, he waited before Cedric with tears streaming down his face, more desperate than he had ever been in his life. He could not watch them murder Lancelot again.

"All right," began Cedric in a dangerous tone. "My men will not touch him, but _you _must do it instead."

"What?" Arthur's voice came meekly, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Either you do it, Roman, or we will." Those cruel eyes flickered. With parted lips, Arthur listened to the jeering of the Saxons at his back. It was an impossible choice. Slowly, he peered back over his shoulder at Lancelot. His sweet baby was bound in the dust, eyes glittering back at him. Arthur crumbled inside when the knight gave a nod. Again, he met Cedric's gaze, and the beast was waiting with a smirk on his face.

"All right," Arthur said, almost inaudible.

"He'll do it," Cedric shouted to his men, and they roared with anticipation. Arthur hung his head, unraveling and begging God to help him. "Go," said Cedric. "Crawl to your whore." The words echoed from only a night before. Had it been last night? How many nights had passed in this hell? Arthur didn't know anymore. Obeying the Saxon's command, he turned and began to crawl toward Lancelot's waiting body. The knight was waiting for him. Both of them knew what would come.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur cried, knelt beside Lancelot's body. His eyes squeezed together with countless tears, head hung apologetically. He shook, and Lancelot looked up to him calmly.

"Come," said the knight. "They are watching." And both knew why this had to be. _Better you than them. _Arthur suffered to open his eyes again and look down on his beloved knight, who lay helplessly with a broken body and bound wrists. He reached out his hand, and it took a century for his quaking fingers to meet Lancelot's fevered cheek. The knight shut his eyes at the ghosting touch, and Arthur's hand moved up to Lancelot's brow. He pushed those black curls back, apologizing and loving in silence. Neither of them could hear the urging noises of their captors. Arthur turned his head to look at Cedric, who sat leisurely and waiting with twitching lips.

"Kiss him," the Saxon said, and his followers echoed his command in eager shouts. Arthur looked away and back to Lancelot, whose eyes lay open again. A sullen tear ran down Arthur's cheek because he could see Lancelot's fading soul in those dark pools. Taking as long as he could, he leaned over toward Lancelot and hoped he would die before he reached his destination. His hope failed, and in the next moment, his lips lay on Lancelot's. They did not press. They did not open. They only lay against the other man's, as the cheering of the Saxons rang in his ears. His eyes were closed, and he knew Lancelot's eyes were too. He was afraid what would happen if he opened them again, and though he had thought his heart already broken, he felt it crack again into new pieces. What if this was the apocalypse of his friendship with Lancelot?

"You call that a kiss?" shouted one of the Saxons.

"Touch him," yelled another, and the lot of them began to chant the words. After a long moment frozen on Lancelot's lips, Arthur moved at last, his hand slowly making its way up the knight's arm. His other had not left the curls. Tears spilled from his lashes and onto Lancelot's skin. The knight did not tell his captain that his own eyes were growing hot behind their lids. The chanting didn't stop, and the Roman cried in shame. _Per favore, Dio, me perdona del mio peccato. Perdonarme, perdonarme, _he thought. _Please, God, forgive me of my sin. Forgive me, forgive me. _He moved his lips, tilted his head one way and then the other, never pressing, never opening. Only lips against lips, refusing to suck away life and failing to give any away. From where the Saxons were standing, it must have looked convincing because they cheered and hooted louder and louder as Arthur shifted back and forth. Cedric wasn't fooled, but he didn't say anything.

The tears didn't stop coming, as Arthur carried out his charade. He didn't know what Lancelot was thinking anymore or feeling and only hoped the knight didn't hate him. His hands were in Lancelot's curls now, fingers entangled and soul choking with every strand that wrapped around them. With each passing moment, he shook more, and the Saxon noise was no help. _Per favore, Dio, perdonarme. (Please, God, forgive me.) _He was going to burn in hell. Not parting his lips from Lancelot's, Arthur straddled the knight's hips, careful as anything to put as little weight as possible on Lancelot's battered body. The Saxons roared with satisfaction and buzzed loudly as they watched. A silent tear fled Gawain's eye as he watched, Galahad sleeping in his lap like a child. Every pair of eyes belonging to the knights shone with pain and grief for their captain. Lancelot seemed dead.

"Kiss him properly, Roman." Cedric had risen from his place and moved to stand at Arthur's shoulder. The Roman froze completely. "You know what I mean." It was a lowly murmur, like that of evil in the night. Arthur straightened, coming away from Lancelot at last, tears coating his face and gleaming as he looked up to Cedric. His lip gave a single quiver, and he bent down again. Cedric began stepping backwards to his place, smirking.

"I'm so sorry," Arthur whispered, voice laden with sorrow. Before Lancelot had a chance to say anything, if he even had anything to say, Arthur's lips met his again. This time, with Cedric's eyes burning him, he slid his tongue into Lancelot's mouth and met no resistance. Groans of pleasure and hoots of encouragement erupted from the Saxons. Gawain looked away, weeping. He almost didn't feel Galahad stir in his lap. The younger knight woke, taking a while to sit up with Gawain's help. He initially looked upon Arthur and Lancelot in utter disbelief, but once it set in that he wasn't imagining the noise or the sight, he came to life for the first time in days with rage that made him seem like Galahad and not a victim.

"Stop!" he shouted, after a long moment of struggle in trying to stand. Yet indeed, he stood, as tall as he could be in his condition. His shoulders drooped, and he held his side painfully. Yet he stood. "This madness will stop." Knowing what would happen and that the Saxons and Cedric would be pleased, Arthur had run his tongue along the roof of Lancelot's mouth, making the knight shudder and the spectators groan. Some of the Saxons were even pleasuring themselves as they watched Arthur atop Lancelot, and it turned Galahad's face into further disgust. "You sick beasts!" Galahad raged. "How dare you stand before the Knights of the Round Table? You are not fit to walk in the slime of the earth! Look what you have done! Arthur and Lancelot, these two men too great for words, better than you'll ever be, put to shame for your evil purposes! You have twisted their love! Gods save you when I regain my sword and strength!"

The Saxons, who had been briefly silenced at Galahad's outburst, split into laughter. Arthur had broken his kiss with Lancelot and heaved with tears and sobs, slumped over his knight and murmuring his apologies over and over again. Sweat beaded Galahad's brow, as he strained to keep his knees from buckling. He tried his best to keep his eyes focused, though the world was spinning now. Gawain eyed him sharply, as the youngest of knights began to sway. He shuddered when flashes of his nightmare struck through him like lightning. He did not hear Arthur's agonizing sobs or see the grimacing faces of his grounded comrades. Lancelot was burning in his head, and Arthur was wailing in defeat. Flash, and they were gone, Gawain's child-like confusion in their place. Flash – swaying wheat and endless fields. Flash – Gawain's eyes.

"Galahad?" his best friend called, as the younger knight trembled with shut eyes.

"_Tu exspecto salus ille nunquam veni."_ _You wait for salvation that will never come. _It was a whisper that he did not understand or recognize, and it sent him into darkness and falling back into Gawain's waiting arms.

Lancelot outstretched his bound hands to Arthur's bowed head like a rising spirit, fingers gently caressing the tear-stained face. "Do not weep," he said. "I love you. I cannot tell you in any pretty words or put my arms around you now, but I say this with whatever honor is left to me. I love you, Arthur. Nothing you do could ever change that." And Arthur looked narrowly at his beloved knight, his beautiful and tragic heart, and he pressed those broken fingers to his cheek with as much care as he possessed.

"You need no pretty words," he murmured. "All beauty lies in thee. Nothing from your body or your soul can be less than gold." He held Lancelot's arm up with both hands now, fingers still laced in the knight's.

"Arthur," Lancelot breathed, tears now springing forth anew. Blood was rising in his throat. "I must tell you once more before it is too late. You're my brother, Arthur. I love you more than any man has ever felt the space in his heart to love. That love is for always, _frater meus_." _My brother. _Arthur bit his lip to keep from sobbing at the words his best friend had picked up on. Eyes still closed, he turned his lips to kiss the precious fingers. Yet only after a moment, he felt Lancelot's hand and arm grow limp, and when he opened his eyes, the knight lay gone with lips parted and eyes fluttered shut.


	7. Chapter 7:Inferno

A/N: Oh, my God. This chapter is so incredibly short. I'm so sorry…. : (

And it's been such a ridiculously long delay…. I've been so disappointing, to you and to myself….. I hate this. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me. I have no excuse. There can be no excuse for all of this. I guess this is the update, but it still makes me sad. I'm sorry…. (sigh) Merry Christmas….. : (

* * *

**WARNING: The following is rated R for violence, language, and mature content. If you are underage or have a problem with adult content, please do not read the following text. You have been warned. Reader Discretion Advised.**

* * *

Chapter 7: Inferno

Arthur's eyes turned into moons, threatening to explode. They twitched dangerously, though whether with tears or the reflective light was indecipherable. His mouth had come apart more than Lancelot's, and he didn't breathe because his knight did not. For a long moment, all thought failed to survive in his mind, and all feeling died in his skin. To anyone else, Lancelot would appear to have fallen into sleep or unconsciousness, but Arthur knew better. He flung his bound hands to Lancelot, blossoming above the ropes to cup the knight's chin, fingers curling into the ashen face. He searched that face desperately, the terror claiming his every vein and clamping on until he felt like it would never leave again.

"Lancelot!" he breathed, eyes moving back and forth too quickly. He gripped the knight's face harder, shaking lightly. "Lancelot!" He went unheard. Retracting his hands and arms, he leaned over and lay his ear over Lancelot's heart, and when he was met with silence that lasted for second after second, the terror threatened to shut down his system entirely. Rising up violently, he screamed his knight's name, disbelief driving him to frenzied madness. Failing to realize it, he snapped his fetters with unnatural strength, and his arms spread to seize Lancelot by the shoulders. Shaking him, he called out the Sarmatian's name over and over, the broken rope left in his lap. Lancelot did not answer or wake or move. Without thinking, Arthur flew to Lancelot's lips and breathed as much air as he could without collapsing his own lungs, earning outcries from the Saxons again. Once risen, he shook the knight again and called his name but received no reply. Again, he breathed into his best friend and again he waited in vain. Time after time, he tried. He called and called but no one answered. The knights had not the heart to rise and tell him to stop. The Saxons enjoyed watching his defeat.

Lancelot wandered in endless fields, unable to remember any face, any love, any hour of joy or sorrow. He knew only his name, and with child-like isolation in his eyes, he searched the empty wheat around him for any company but failed to find any. These fields stretched for miles around him, and the silence, broken only by wind, left him too uneasy. He realized he was without weapon, and the trinket he kept around his neck was gone. Why could he not remember anyone? Did no one love him? He wanted someone… He needed someone. How could he be all alone?

"Hello?" he called out. "Hello? Is anyone here?" Only the wind rustling the wheat came in reply. He turned in circles futilely, becoming more and more afraid as the solitude seeped into his love-starved limbs and made him cold. The sun was golden in the fields, but he began to shiver. And then he remembered with a new stream of light bleeding in his heart. "Arthur?" He turned again, head going before the rest of his body. "Arthur?"

"Lancelot!" Arthur wailed, face red with wild sorrow as he shook and shook to no avail. "Lancelot!" He shook the knight by the shoulders with less fervor. "Lancelot." With a whimper, he sat back on his heels at last, fingers loosening in the Sarmatian's tunic. The Roman's head hung as his shoulders gently quaked, and his knights looked away from his weeping. He could say nothing. He could not yell at Lancelot for leaving him, nor beg him to come back. He could not say the name anymore. He had not the heart for words. Arthur could not pick himself up this time. He didn't know what to do with himself when it felt like his core had split apart, stitch by stitch. Lancelot lay sleeping at his knees, sleeping for the first time since they had been taken captive. Gawain wondered, as he watched Arthur's heaving back with lost eyes, what the Sarmatian was dreaming of.

Lancelot dreamed of a waning moon in the spring, when the only blanket he needed to sleep in the hills was Arthur's cloak still flowing from the Roman's shoulders. He dreamed of a night where he could still see the stars and know what they were. He dreamed of Arthur stretched around him and smiling shrewdly to himself, unlike any other time. He dreamed of the Roman breathing like the sway of the long grass when the breeze touches down on the earth, head tilted to fit into the curve that was made when Lancelot's neck met his shoulder. He dreamed of rest, rest that would only come in freedom, even if that freedom was only a meadow beside Hadrian's Wall with Arthur holding him close. He dreamed and he dreamed and he couldn't wake up. He couldn't find his way home. He couldn't remember home. Perhaps he didn't have one.

"Well, now that _that's _over with, we can get on with our entertainment," suggested a Saxon who had never before spoken. His dirty face broke into a grin as he folded his arms, and Arthur didn't stop heaving with sobs that never came. He couldn't breathe, and he didn't care. He had failed to hear the Saxon, didn't look up at the beast's face. He had never felt this way before – abandoned by God, without hope. He didn't want hope anymore. He wanted Lancelot. That was the only thing he could think of now – his dead brother, the body that lay under his tears.

"My deepest condolences," began Cedric, stepping aimlessly from his place with eyes on Arthur. "It must be a hard thing to lose your whore." The Saxons laughed. Arthur heard nothing. "But look at this way, Roman. Now, he won't have to suffer anymore. He's the lucky one." The voice was rough and almost hoarse, emotion absent. Perhaps, under any other circumstances, Artorious Castus, infamous war lord of the Roman Empire, would have turned his head and stared into the Saxon's eyes of stone. But Cedric was met with no gaze this time. His words failed to spark any anger in Arthur, though the other knights made up for their captain in that. No – nothing Cedric could do or say would mean anything to Arthur now. They could inflict no more pain upon him. With eyes fixed on empty space, the Roman grew numb.

"Ye miserable brood of foreign swine!" said Bors, rising to his feet with pale tracks in his soiled face. "You think you can get away with this?" His eyes wandered over the Saxons, most of them hidden in shadow. "By whatever gods live in heaven, I swear ye'll all pay with your lives – if I have to see to it myself." One of the Saxons approached the knight laughing aloud.

"Oh, really? Tell me, knight, what could you _possibly _do to us? Look at you. You're nothing. You are nothing but a toy to be played with at our disposal." The words were spat and bitter, fang-like teeth glimmering faintly when he spoke. Bors clenched his teeth wordlessly, face reddening with impending rage. "Look around," the Saxon said, almost whispering. "We have raped, beaten, and killed you. You are _defeated_." He had leaned in, almost as if he only wanted Bors to hear him. "Defeated. Look at your famous Roman captain. What more proof do you need?"And Bors said nothing, only looked deep into the Saxon's eyes with a fire in his gaze that should not be underestimated.

"Why don't we cut off his leg and feed it to the dogs?" growled the Saxon, to which his comrades roared approvingly. A group of them dashed forth to seize the burly knight from before the eyes of their comrade. They dragged Bors away from Dagonet, and the Saxon who had made the suggestion followed, eyes locked with the knight's and fingers fondling his knife. Bors did not protest, and Dagonet only watched his friend with a painful gleam in his eyes. Arthur's defeat had left the knights in silent resignation to their fate. The Roman had not moved from his place, from Lancelot's body. He did not look up or cease his panting for air that refused to come.

The Saxons shoved Bors against a mangled stump that was conveniently tilted and began to tie him to it. The one with the blade watched is comrades work, eyes locked with Bors'. When his knife pricked the tip of his finger, he did not flinch or indicate that he had noticed. The bead of blood remained. As the other Saxons dispersed, he began to approach Bors, stone gaze never breaking from the knight's. The blade gleamed for an instant when it caught a moonbeam that died in the next second. The clouds were moving, filling the sky to drop a blanket of darkness of the earth. Soon, the flames would go out and leave them in black.

"Bloody hell!" Bors cried, half-groaning. The Saxon had thrown a stiletto into his leg without warning. He stepped closer, before leaning down to pull it out. Bors grimaced and rocked as best he could against the wood and rope, heel of his boot digging into the earth. Pain coursed through his leg now, and Dagonet frowned sympathetically.

"How does it feel, knight?" the Saxon asked. He tossed the little knife aside and slowly lifted the long blade, watching it shine in Bors' eyes for a moment. He didn't smile like the knight might have expected. He just let it shine in his victim's eyes, watching without any trace of humanity in his face. The blade cut through the cloth first, and Bors only winced as it continued to his flesh. No hiss of pain or outcry. Yet when the blade dipped deeper, Bors could not hold back a loud curse, though only Dagonet had the heart and lack of distraction to watch. Arthur's eyes barely glimmered at his knight's outburst. Instead, he gave himself to the haunting.

"_Lancelot_," he had whispered. Fingers stroking black curls – quiet love. "_Lancelot_." Fevered murmur and hot skin. Gray eyes gleaming, worried and tender. "_I brought you tea_." Careful hand guiding spoon to swollen lips. Empty cup and body slipping into bed. Arms around aching bones and muscles, curls against heart. Sigh. Candle blown out.

"Enough," said Cedric. The Saxon stopped without hesitating, still staring fixedly at Bors. After a moment of waiting to listen and watch the knight heave and rock with pain, the brute straightened, knife lifting away from Bors. One step at a time, he backed away, leaving the knight tied down. "That boy needs to be punished for his insolence," said Cedric, eyeing Galahad indifferently. One eye gleamed for a second, and some of his men moved forward from behind him to take Galahad away from Gawain again. Gawain pleaded with them, as a mother would beg for her child, no longer with anger or ferocity, only with weak desperation. None of them cared. They took his beloved Galahad from those weary and shielding arms, as Gawain chanted, "No," with an unstable voice. He watched again as the young knight was dragged through the dust, again as his head thudded down into the earth when the Saxons let go of his body, again as the circle of enemies formed around his best friend and one of them made to begin the assault.

"Damn it all, where's the fun for me?" bellowed another Saxon jovially, baring a toothy grin as he stepped out of the crowd and into the light. "Gotta get meself a runt too!" His comrades laughed, as he approached the grounded band of knights. Unfortunately, he picked out a frightened boy, shaking and face drained of color. This knight's name was Samhain, and he was no older than twenty winters, transferred to the Round Table after most of his original unit was killed and his commander grew sick of the survivors. For someone who had killed, the boy had always been unusually mild-tempered and quiet, almost innocent, if one studied him carefully. He had a pale face that was now deathly white and wide eyes that watched when he did not speak. The other knights had welcomed him into their world with paternal instincts that deepened more and more as they learned his quiet nature. Lancelot had once remarked how when the boy killed someone, it was with an unfamiliar gentleness, almost apologetic and always regretful. Tristan had replied that Samhain was thus a danger to them, for if the boy could not be inhuman in battle, he would always have the potential to fail to do his job, thereby leaving the other knights in peril and himself besides.

"He's a pretty little boy, isn't he?" croaked one of the Saxons, taking Samhain's face in one hand and squeezing as if the knight were but a child. Samhain, with tears welling up in his eyes, whimpered as the Saxon let go and others tied him down. Without warning, one of his captors straddled his hips, brandished a hunting knife, and plunged it into his belly. The boy threw back his head with a scream, provoking a handful of knights to rise to their feet in revolt, though more Saxons threw them back down. Samhain's attacker only grinned at his pain-distorted face, before moving the blade, cutting anew. None of the knights watched, as the boy was disemboweled, and at last, none of them were left tearless. Samhain screamed for his mother first, but when the agony became too much, he could remember no words and only cries tore through the air above him. Blood was everywhere, all over the Saxon who mutilated him, all over the wood, dripping down through the spaces to the dirt. Samhain's mouth poured out more, even as he screamed, and his skin was a color that none of the knights had ever seen, a new shade of white.

"You bastards!" Gawain roared, face red with fury once again. He didn't know whether to scream at the Saxon killing Samhain or at Galahad's rapists. Bors bellowed like a beast, still bound to the log, consumed with outrage that made him seem inhuman. The rest of the knights and their Roman captain made no sound; they knelt without comfort, weeping silently and clenching their teeth and their fists in helplessness and defeat. "You bastard sons of whores!" Gawain said, but no one listened. Samhain had grown quiet at last, his spirit released. And just as Arthur lifted his head and the last of the boy's screams faded, Saxons seized Lancelot's body and began to carry it toward one of the dark trees. Only the Roman watched as they lifted his best friend up and bound him tightly with rope to the trunk. The Sarmatian's head was bowed to his chest, eyes unmoving and curls crowning his brow. A sullen tear trailed down Arthur's cheek, as the Saxons gathered more wood and piled it under Lancelot's feet. The Roman did not pray this time. This time, he resigned to his suffering alone.

Just as one of the Saxons approached the bale of wood with a lit torch, it occurred to Arthur what they were going to do to his dead best friend. Again, his eyes widened and lips parted in disbelief, but no words came out. The Saxon bent over, the flame met the wood, and it began to consume the bale all too quickly. It was the first fire they had seen in days, the first blaze of warmth and light. It mocked them now, while it inched up toward Lancelot's body. Somewhere in the back of Arthur's mind, he was glad they were doing it this way. He had a feeling it was what Lancelot would have wanted. And yet Arthur could not ignore the pain that it stirred in him anew. He wanted to cleanse Lancelot's body according to ritual, dress it in oils and perfumes and wrap it in a shroud. He wanted to touch those black curls one, last time and bid farewell and give a proper eulogy to the man who he had loved most of all. As he watched, they bereaved him of all of that, and the smoke began to curl up into the foliage. It would fill his lungs soon, if God was still listening, and he might embrace sweet death and Lancelot's shadow. With tear-glittering eyes, Arthur hoped for this as he watched the fire crackle the wood.

"_Arthur, come get me!" _

That laugh echoed in his mind like pearls bouncing on tile. Arthur shut his eyes.

"_Come on, you can run faster than that!" _

Laughter, laughter, laughter.

"Run, Lancelot," he whispered. The knight disappeared around a corner, lavender veils trailing in the air behind him. That laughter did not fade, and for some reason, Lancelot was a little boy, running into his arms. "Run," he whispered, lip quivering and tear falling unrealized. He almost looked like he was praying, eyes closed and head bowed. And it was for that reason that he did not see hope turning into hell.

Lancelot opened his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8:Armageddon

A/N: Well, damn. Here it is. Chapter 8. This is barely longer than the last chapter, which means it's too short by my standards. (sigh) Oh well. I think this is okay. Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I really appreciate your support. I hope you and your families all had a lovely holiday and New Year's! It's 2005, yay!

Remember, this isn't slash. I wouldn't say that all the time, except sometimes people need reminding or else they start getting wrong ideas in their head… Heh.

The lengthy foreign shit that Arthur says near the middle is the Lord's Prayer in Latin. The rest of what he says is Italian.

I finally got my Director's Cut DVD! YAY! So happy. So damn good. And now I've taken a new liking to Tristan, so that's why he suddenly has a "big" part in this chapter. Damn, Mads is hot in real life.

Please Read and Review! Thank you!

**WARNING: The following is rated R for violence, language, sexuality, and adult content. If you are underage or uncomfortable with this type of material, please go back and don't read the following text. Reader Discretion is Advised. Proceed with Caution. **

* * *

Chapter 8: Armageddon

The air was sucked from Arthur's lungs as his heart lurched like he was falling from the battlement of Hadrian's Wall to the frozen earth. Lancelot's eyes shone at him, quiet and tired, a memory of each time the knight had lain in wounded delirium. Arthur's eyes quivered like shards of glass in the last light, lips parted in another shock that his body couldn't take. No one else had realized it yet, still in the haunting of Samhain's screams or preoccupied with Galahad's rape or defeated by the rising flame. One breath escaped him, turning white before evanescing. He could feel his heart literally quiver in his chest, but it didn't occur to him that it had actually stilled.

Tristan was the first knight to look up. Lancelot's eyes were suddenly flowing into his. It was an accident. He didn't think the knight could tell which man was who. Perhaps Lancelot saw Arthur's face in his. But something happened in Tristan that had never happened before, something that truly scared him, if only because he didn't know what it was. The fear was deafening, felling all sound as silently as he himself could bring down an enemy or an animal. As second after second passed by, where Lancelot's black pools remained fixed on him, emptiness began to fill him and creep up into every organ and bone. He didn't make a sound, even now. But it sunk in – Lancelot was about to burn alive.

Galahad opened his eyes. They mimicked Lancelot's, glassy and fevered, but they were only half-moons. He did not have the strength to lift the lids any higher. He couldn't feel the Saxon upon him or hear the others cheering. He didn't see them either. His eyes found Gawain without deciding to look. He looked too young in Gawain's sight, too young for this life of warriors and the suffering of men. Without realizing what he was doing, Gawain began to rise.

"_Gawain,"_ the youngest knight had whispered, body curled in Gawain's arms and his own arms linked around his friend's neck. Gawain had carried him no matter how heavy he had been, taking Galahad back to life.

For the first time since they had been taken captive, he was on both feet for longer than a minute. His comrades all lifted their heads toward him, as if he were a god rising out of the dawn. With tears faint on his cheeks and glinting in his eyes, he straightened and did not budge, but his gaze was unmistakable. It lay fixed on the Saxons who tormented his Galahad. Their laughter rang in his ears, mingled with a misplaced memory of a bell. It must have been from that monastery….

"_I don't like it here."_ Galahad had searched the ceiling, as the knights had filed through the narrow corridors dimly lit by torches. His comrades had followed his eyes above, none of them speaking. Though they were pagans, they could not help but feel some sort of reverence for the place. Arthur had led them, one of the monks before him with a lantern. Gawain could still see Lancelot's black curls, bowed behind Arthur. He remembered Galahad shivering and his own hand slipping back into the younger knight's. The deep rumble of that bell swung back and forth in his mind. He could see himself sitting in one of the windows, Galahad easing back against him and wrapped in his cloak.

"Stop." It came in a whisper. Tristan turned his eyes from Lancelot to Gawain. He knew the Saxons hadn't heard his comrade. Gawain knew it too. But he waited, letting the word dissipate from his lips in his raspy tone. It began to rain.

The scrape of Galahad's body against the dirt was faint in Gawain's ears. Galahad didn't hear it. The rain was in his hair now, sliding over his cheek that faced heaven. The other was shielding one patch of earth from the water, and his eyes had not left Gawain. He could not remember if it was day or night, he realized. It felt like darkness.

"Stop." This time, it was louder. Just loud enough for the Saxons to hear – and they stopped. The following moment was bereft of sound with exception of the rain hitting the ground. Arthur was oblivious to his knight's uprising, as he watched the fire continue to rise and the smoke seduce Lancelot's senses. The rain failed to save him. Arthur was unsure about what would kill him; it seemed like the smoke would fill his lungs first. Silent and vision clouding, Lancelot realized it was twilight. He smiled.

"Stop?" a Saxon echoed. "Why in gods' names would we do that?" His companions laughed, and Galahad's rapist did not pause. The knight did not know if the water on his face were tears or rain.

"If you wish to live another moment, you will stop now." Gawain's voice was steady, lacking anger or despair. It was a threat that did not call for emotion.

Arthur was shaking. He hung his head, never wanting to look at Lancelot again but longing to do so more than anything else. He had let the knight go. He had let the Saxons tie him up alive. Oh, God. Oh, God… What could he do? He wept and quaked in the rain, biting his lip until it bled but then putting those lips to work once more. He was grateful to already be kneeling.

"_Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum_."

The Saxons' hearty laughter rumbled in the earth, some of them stamping their feet. Gawain's eyes remained unmoving.

"_Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra."_

"You bastard son of the devil's whore, if you don't step away from him right now, I swear before whatever gods reside in heaven and earth that I will cut you from throat to navel and send your innards back in a basket separate from your head." His tone was even, flat, and devoid of any emotion he should be entitled to have.

"_Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris." _

The Saxons laughed further, and Gawain's challenger cooed at him. "He's got a sharp tongue, doesn't he, men? I say we should cut it out."

"_Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo."_

Arthur began to see things.

"_Amen." _

Arthur began to remember.

"_Who is she?"_ Lancelot had asked, eyes unable to move from the lifeless face of the woman carved in stone. Her hair lay hidden beneath a long cloth, and her face was kind, even with hollow eyes. He wondered what she thought of, staring down at something no one else could see, in her flowing gowns.

"_Mary,"_ Arthur had said. _"The mother of God_." He had lifted his head at last, eyes shining with that nameless emotion. In the orange candle glow, the two men had stared at her face in silence. Lancelot had not mocked Arthur's religion that time; neither of them knew why. But Lancelot could see it now, body sagging against the rope and rain seeping into his blood. He could see himself standing next to Arthur, snow falling outside the narrow windows, the Virgin Mary unmoving.

Arthur could still feel it.

"_Who are you praying for?"_ The whisper had crept into his ear when he had knelt in the darkness. His knees had been numb in the snow, and his hands had ached as they held steadfast to Excalibur. He had parted his lips, waiting for a moment, for the snow to find his skin. Lancelot had dropped to one knee, hands going to Arthur's shoulders, and the other knee had followed. Without another word, he had lain his brow to the back of Arthur's shoulder, breathing like he hadn't in a long a time. Arthur had bowed his head sighing. They had lost men that day, had come close to dying. Arthur had kept his back to the abandoned carnage; the bodies had still lain frozen somewhere beyond the shadowed trees.

"_You." _

Lancelot coughed for the first time. The smoke was beginning its seduction. How the flames had not yet burned his sweet knight, Arthur did not know. Perhaps God was still with them. He tried to keep the flames out of his sight, tried to focus on Lancelot's face, but he could smell it. What would Lancelot smell like when the fire began to kill him? Arthur was almost sick at the thought, and tears sprung forth anew in his eyes. Nothing had ever seemed more hopeless. He knew that if he tried to save his knight now, the Saxons would shoot him down in an instant. Lancelot would watch him die, along with all the rest of his Round Table. What good would he be to them then? But he could not remain here on his knees and watch Lancelot turn into ash, hour by hour. The rain thickened.

"_I don't know what to name him." _Arthur gasped at the vision flash in his mind. He shuddered and shut his eyes, searching for Lancelot's voice. It had been his knight's. He knew it had been. Suddenly, Arthur was watching himself and his best friend. Lancelot cradled a baby in his arms, swaddled in cloth. He gave the child to Arthur gently, and Arthur beamed at the little face.

"_We'll think of something,"_ Arthur murmured, smiling. Lancelot hovered near his shoulder, peering into the blanket. The child slept, but Arthur didn't need to see his eyes to know he belonged to Lancelot. _"Something beautiful."_

"_Beautiful?"_ echoed Lancelot. _"I was thinking bold or noble or something of the like."_

"_Nay,"_ said Arthur. _"Beautiful will do just fine."_

"Arthur!" Tristan's cry snapped the Roman out of the vision, and Arthur opened his eyes to see Lancelot's distressed expression. The fire swayed in the rain, but it grew perilously close to the knight's flesh. Arthur's eyes widened again and his lips parted, waiting on edge. But the second Lancelot yelped at the first lick of fire, Arthur bolted up to his feet and kicked the bale away. Only half of it came up in a tangled mess of burning brush, but by the time it hit another tree after rolling, the rain and wind had put it out. Arthur flew against Lancelot, taking the knight's head to his shoulder and all of his breath.

"Bloody Roman dog!" One of the Saxons strode from the back of the group toward Arthur, picking up an ax on his way. Distracted by their comrade and the Roman, the other Saxons did not see Tristan spring toward the heap of weapons they had stolen from the knights and pick up his bow. The Saxon lay dead after a hiss through the air. What happened next was unclear, but a roar of noise came from the Saxons, as Tristan began to spend every arrow left in his quiver. Gawain flew toward him and grabbed a sword, not bothering to search for his ax in that mess. The rest of the knights began to struggle to their feet and make for the weapons, Tristan's bow saving them from attacking Saxons. Gawain yelled out in victory as he cut the binds of every knight who came to him, allowing them to take up arms and begin their revolt. Bors growled as he flung his ax, the biggest of them all, at the Saxon who was still perched over Samhain's body. The beast toppled off of the boy and out of sight; Bors bared his teeth in satisfaction.

"Burn in hell, you bastards!" Gawain cursed as at last, he was given sweet vengeance and the blood of Galahad's rapists. His best friend scrambled out from under clashing blades and sprays of blood, almost afraid of Gawain in his frenzy. He had never seen his friend look so wild and deadly. Maneuvering around Tristan, he grabbed Gawain's ax that lay untouched and uncovered and he found his shield. His curls made a mop of water now; the Saxons would pay for their crimes.

"_Respirare per me_." _Breathe for me. _It was a gasp amidst the panting of both men. Arthur's lips confessed his desperation right into Lancelot's ear, the Roman's cheek against his and wet with both kinds of rain. Their chests heaved up into each other's, their breath cold on each other's skin and loud. "_Respirare per me, Lancelot_." Lancelot couldn't form any words, couldn't breathe. A strange mumbling tumbled from his bloody lips. He was shivering. Arthur shut his eyes and pushed himself up again, fitting into Lancelot's curves, head sliding onto the knight's shoulder. They grappled for air together, the rain cleansing them at last of the blood and dirt and sweat and tears. Their garments clung to their skin now, and eyelashes gleamed with beads. The fire was dead. Smoke still rose around them.

"Arthur!" Tristan cried, weapons hissing through the air around him. He could see his captain's body shielding Lancelot. The horses wailed, driven into frenzy by a pair of knights who had freed them at last and sent them into the fray for their masters. One by one, the Sarmatians swung onto their mounts and made last attempts at killing their captors. But once they had, those horses bore them away, into the wood. "Arthur!" Tristan was almost panicking. The Roman had to find his horse and leave. The knights were already going.

"_Fare lei non fa mai che a me ancora_," he whispered, as if they were words of love. But in the next instant, he pressed against Lancelot with a new force and his outcry tore through the air. His head had tipped back, and he panted anew. Lancelot thought he looked too much like a statue of Jesus Christ he had seen in the monastery. _Don't you ever do that to me again. _

"Arthur!" Tristan yelled again, shooting the Saxon whom had sent an arrow into the Roman's back. The feathers bristled in the rain, the shaft protruding beside his left shoulder blade. Lancelot stared at his best friend, as Arthur slowly began to slip down, and his lips glistened with water now instead of blood.

"Arthur?" The name came from the Sarmatian like the name of fear. It was the first word he had uttered since dying in Arthur's hands. The Roman landed on the blackened bale; it was barely more than ash now. Lancelot could still see him breathing, even as he lay like death.

"No!" Tristan cried, watching as another Saxon made for Arthur with an ax. The scout brandished his blade from the scabbard at his back and began to rush toward his fallen captain. Everything had slowed again. Lancelot's head hung, eyes fixed on Arthur. The first sound Tristan heard was his own sword ripping through the Saxon's neck. His enemy fell dead with a thump, ax bouncing once in the grass and head rolling away. Tristan didn't notice.

Gawain bellowed with adrenaline rushing in his veins, tasting vengeance at last. The blood of his victims washed away into the mud, pale with rain on his ax. He turned around only to be greeted by his horse, and he could feel the sense of gladness in his subconscious, no matter how subtle it was. He swung onto the mare's back, grabbing a fistful of the black mane, with his ax still hanging in midair. His wandering eyes found Galahad quickly and his horse trotted toward the other knight with a nudge of the knight's heels. Galahad was fighting with a blade and his shield, as if nothing had happened to him. Gawain almost stopped as he thought of it. His ax found Galahad's opponent with a sickening noise, and the younger knight staggered at the interruption, before looking up at his friend.

"Come on," said Gawain, dislodging his ax from the Saxon without glancing at the man. Galahad sheathed his blade without taking his eyes off Gawain and jumped onto the horse, his knees fitting into the back of Gawain's. His shield remained as guard over his right side, and his left arm slipped around Gawain's waist. They turned their backs on the glade and galloped off, never looking back.

Arthur reached back with his arm and pulled the arrow from his flesh as best he could, hissing in pain as he threw it aside. He rolled onto his side, seeing Tristan, just as another Saxon sent an arrow flying into the tree. It lodged in the wood just below Lancelot's boot; Arthur had swung out of the way. Tristan whipped around in a flash, loading his bow and killing the Saxon. Without looking at Lancelot, he grabbed Arthur and urged the Roman away, meeting their horses just as more Saxons began to swarm around them. The enemy now stood between them and Lancelot. No one looked to the Sarmatian's face, wet with clinging curls. Arthur had no time to protest as Tristan shoved him up onto his horse and cried out for his own to bear him away. The white steed needed no insistence from Arthur. It fled from the Saxons before the Roman had straightened in the saddle. The Saxons growled in vain, too late with their clawing weapons to catch the Roman and his knight.

Thus, the Round Table disappeared into the forest shadows. The rain hounded at the earth, turning it to mud and washing away all evidence of the men's captivity. Some of the Saxons ran after the last of the horses and their masters but only ended up stumbling into empty space. The animals were too swift for them, and the knights turned into silhouettes, diminishing in the distance. Lancelot watched them and listened to the hooves, the Saxons complaining like dogs. His brothers were free.

Arthur was the last amongst them, failing to hear the furious hooves pounding into the night or feel the cold on his skin again. His cloak blazed behind him, the same scarlet banner of freedom it had been every day before the nightmare began. The apprentice monks, boys with high voices, sang in his head. The Latin melted together, as his eyes held onto Lancelot's for as long as the knight remained in sight.


	9. Chapter 9: Aftermath

A/N: Well. Here it is. Chapter 9. I think it sucks. I'm sorry. It's too short, too. Damn it.

Thank you too all of my readers and reviewers. Your support means a lot to me. I just hope the ending of this story will be satisfactory. (And no, this isn't the last chapter.)

**NO SLASH!** Please Read and Review!

* * *

Chapter 9: Aftermath

The Round Table rode into Hadrian's Wall while the rain pelted the earth, and doors swung open like broken dams, letting dirty faces wash through. They flocked to the arriving knights, sounding their awe at the resurrected. Or perhaps they looked more like ghosts. Too many horses and too many people and mud everywhere. No one looked for blood yet.

"Get some water!" yelled Jols, already steadying one of the horses. "The healers! They need healers!"

"Oh, gods, I thought you were dead!" Vanora took Bors' face in her hands before he was even dismounted. She kissed him and wept, and their children huddled around her skirts. He slid off of the horse and into her arms, still bleeding. The moment that Gawain's horse halted, Galahad swayed down and into Jols'. Gawain leaped off and his fingers found Galahad's curls.

"Where the bloody hell have you been?" Jols murmured. Galahad sagged against him.

"I don't know," said Gawain, taking Galahad to his chest though his legs quaked with weakness. "I don't know." Arthur was the last to trail in, and no one seemed to notice him at first. He watched his knights with empty eyes, hair dripping. Vanora found him at last, Bors and the children trailing behind her.

"Arthur," she said. "Where's Lancelot?"

* * *

Arthur sat on his bed in new clothes. They were clean. They were dry. He was alone. The candle glowed softly at his back, and he polished Excalibur for a while without stopping. The blade gleamed whenever it caught the light, and he moved it back and forth just to watch it shine. He hadn't said a word. He hadn't answered Vanora or any of the healers. He had walked away from everyone, returning to his room like nothing had happened. No one had stopped him. He wondered if he had wanted them to.

The flame flickered when he stretched out his hand. He pulled the drawer open in the bedside table, wasn't sure what he was looking for. Maybe alcohol – he had kept a bottle for emergencies. He wasn't one to drink away grief. Or anything, for that matter. He had never been drunk; the Lord commanded sobriety. Perhaps that was why he didn't find the flask. Instead, his fingers recognized a rosary. He pulled it out but didn't scoop it up into his hand. He let it drag along the wood and make noise. They were the black beads. He looked at them for a moment, before letting them drop to the floor. He waited until he was sure the sound was gone and returned to shining Excalibur. The sword was clean.

* * *

Gawain hadn't allowed for examination. He had called for a healer until one arrived, not caring who was left untreated because of it. Galahad had not woken in his hold. The healer's eyes had widened upon seeing Galahad. It reminded Gawain of Samhain. The healer had taken Galahad's limp body from Gawain and hurried to one of the back rooms. Gawain had followed and waited outside the door, while the healer cleaned Galahad's body. A long while later, he had reappeared with Gawain's best friend in new clothes that seemed a tad too big. Gawain took the young knight again and guided him to an empty cot. Once he backed away, the healer had continued his work, using bandage and herbs. Eventually, Galahad lay undisturbed, wrapped in three blankets, and the healer pulled Gawain aside.

"I know what happened," he whispered. Gawain's eyes didn't flinch. "His arse…. It was…."

"I know," Gawain snapped. "I was bloody there, okay?" He turned his gaze back ahead, watching Galahad sleep from afar.

"What the hell happened?" Gawain's breath came like a horse's. He looked fine. His eyes matched Arthur's. He didn't want to remember.

"I'm not the one to tell you."

"Who is, then?"

"Arthur." The healer scoffed, to Gawain's vague surprise.

"Arthur isn't himself anymore." It was a dismissal, almost like he was calling the Roman mad. Gawain wasn't angry.

"None of us are."

* * *

"Bors," Vanora started, voice trembling. "Where's Lancelot?" No one had answered her question yet. Bors didn't look at her. He was stiff in his chair, gripping the wine goblet too hard. Dagonet lay his hands on her shoulders.

"Leave him be," he said gently. "Save the questions for later." Gawain arrived finally, boots slowly clicking. His eyes scanned the room. Only Bors, Dagonet, and Vanora seemed to be in sight.

"Where's Galahad?" Tristan lingered in the shadows, stroking his hawk.

"Sleeping," said Gawain. Vanora pursed her lips and looked away from Bors.

"Where's Lancelot?" she cried out to Gawain.

"God damn it, woman, don't you know when to hold your tongue?" Bors had slammed the goblet on the table and risen to his feet, roaring. Vanora cowered in her chair now, looking at him with wounded eyes. Dagonet had lowered his eyes, but Gawain stared at him.

"Fine," she breathed as she stood. "If you don't want me here, then I'll go look after the children." She turned away and left. No one made to stop her. Bors sat back down after a moment, silently realizing his mistake. He took another drink.

"We can't keep silent forever," said Tristan. The hawk's eyes glinted in the dark.

"You seem to do a good job of it," said Bors.

"You're drunk," Tristan dismissed, looking away irately. "And nothing intelligent ever comes from a drunken man." A pause of silence followed.

"You're right," Gawain said. "People need to know."

"I think we should leave it to Arthur," said Dagonet, moving away from the empty chair and passing Gawain.

"I don't know if Arthur's in his right mind," Gawain remarked.

"What do ya mean?" Bors countered, looking up at him with shining lips, frowning. "You ain't callin' him mad."

"Is it so hard to believe that maybe we all are?"

"I ain't crazy," Bors growled. "And neither is he."

"Then you try talking to him. Get him out of his room." Bors didn't answer. He took another drink.

* * *

Gawain returned to the healing ward after an hour or two. He didn't want to hover over Galahad; the boy needed his rest. But at the same time, Gawain wished he could sit at his friend's side until Galahad woke. No good news greeted him. Galahad had sunk into fever.

"How much longer?" Gawain questioned.

"I don't know," said the healer. "If the fever doesn't break soon, I don't think he'll make it." Gawain turned to look at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"They beat him, didn't they? Maybe there's more damage than we can see." Gawain looked back to Galahad with glimmering eyes, and the younger knight struggled on his cot with invisible demons. He couldn't believe that after all of this, he was going to lose Galahad. He couldn't believe that their fight had been for nothing. He couldn't believe that they had escaped only to greet death in some other place. No. Gawain couldn't believe it. He refused to.

"Gawain," Galahad whimpered. "Gawain." The older knight strode from the healer's side to Galahad's at once, kneeling down on the stone and laying his hand to Galahad's brow.

"I'm here," he whispered, eyes searching his friend's face. "I'm here." He stroked at Galahad's curls gently, just as he always had. He wasn't afraid this time. This time, he had to be all right. His fingers graced Galahad's sweat like it was something delicate. His hand tarried down to his friend's cheek, and he traced Galahad's jaw with one finger. Arthur didn't have this. How could his captain still be alive?

* * *

Arthur remembered what it had been like to live. He was haunted by one memory now, one last piece of humanity. It was like a shard of glass wedged into his flesh. He had to get it out. He needed release. He didn't feel anything. All he knew was that the ghost wouldn't leave him until he forced it out. He took Excalibur, pushed into his boots, and slipped out of the room without blowing out the candle.

_It was cold. December always brought snow, even if walls stood between it and them. They didn't need windows to see it. They could feel it, like heat radiating from a pot in the fire. Buried in layers of bedclothes, their bodies were dormant summers, but cheeks and eyelids and exhaled breaths were cold. They were cold no matter how close together they were._

Arthur followed his feet without thinking. He must have gone this way before. Where was he going? The tower. That's right. The first eastern tower. It was dark; he hadn't bothered to bring a lantern or a torch. He held Excalibur loosely at his side, keeping it off the ground, and tried to catch the shadow flickers. They were like a pale light that he couldn't see, that had no origin. Like God. But perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps none of it was there.

_He hesitated. His eyes liked the dark, the rest behind their lids. But he was awake. Slowly, he began to feel his arm sloping over Lancelot's body. That arm connected to his hand that lay over Lancelot's hand. He could barely feel Lancelot's fingers with his. His skin had melted into Lancelot's, and he could feel the knight's shoulder blades like little hills against his chest. His heart beat in the valley between them._

He had reached the stairwell. The darkness suddenly narrowed, and he knew it would begin to wind into a spiral that no one could either see or feel. It was almost like a seashell. He could remember pressing one into Lancelot's palm. It flashed through his mind in a startling breath. The Sarmatian laughed. He couldn't hear it. The shell had been streaked with purple. And now he remembered violet fields. Lancelot had liked violets. They were far away in the south. Were they were blossomed now? He couldn't remember what season it was. Or what day.

_He breathed in and Lancelot's scent invaded him like a perfume. He couldn't decide what it smelled like. Maybe nothing at all. His other arm locked perfectly under Lancelot's neck, and his head lay on the knight's. His cheek rested on Lancelot's, and he could almost hear the Sarmatian's curls bristle, as if the wind could pass through stone. He opened his eyes. Lancelot slept._

A stream of light broke the darkness when he pushed the door up. Three windows. Three windows like the Trinity, faceless statues standing in the tower circle. He could hear the rain again. It dripped through the window and made little puddles on the floor. Everything was gray, he realized as he approached one of those windows. He couldn't remember what direction they had come from, returning from the woods. Had the Saxons moved yet? He wondered what they had done with the bodies.

For a moment, he waited. He stood still and alone with eyes to the stones, listening to the rain. He looked up again. Without doubting, he neared the window and lay Excalibur against the wall next to it. He pulled the rope from his belt where it had been hiding. His tunic fluttered in the wind. The rain touched him again. He was a silhouette in the window.

_Bless me, Father, for I have sinned._

He was wearing the burgundy tunic. It had always reminded Lancelot of wine. He tried to smell the grapes on Lancelot's breath, realized his knight didn't breathe, knew he didn't want to either. In the twilight, his eyes had turned from green to gray, and they did not rise again. They resigned to death like the sun, for the sun could only burn if Lancelot lived. He wondered if he would find the knight or if Lancelot would find him; he wondered who would find the body here. Maybe Tristan, he thought as he lifted one boot up to the ledge. Maybe Gawain. The other boot followed. He looped the rope through the iron circle that peeked down from where it was above the window on the outside. He lifted his eyes up for the last time, and they caught one sliver of light in their search for the end of the sky. He hoped it wasn't Galahad… or Dagonet. A single monk hummed in his mind, and he could almost hear the ghost voices in the background. He didn't know what they were saying anymore. He didn't think it mattered.

And as he inched his boots forward and let the rope embrace his neck, the monastery faded from his memory for the first time. God was absent. He lowered his eyes. He had never been alone before.


	10. Chapter 10: Resurrection

A/N: Holy shit. **EVERYONE GO READ _THE RISING_ BY YSEULT RIGHT FREAKING NOW! AND REVIEW!**

Okay. So here's the next chapter. And some of you thought it was already over! Not quite. This IS NOT the last chapter!

Thank you to all of my readers and reviewers. I love you all!

Please Read and Review! NO SLASH!

Meh. I think this isn't as good as it could be or should be. Oh, well. It's acceptable, I suppose.

**Music for this Chapter: The Passion of the Christ Soundtrack, and Tracks 3, 5, and 8 from the LOTR:ROTK soundtrack.**

* * *

Chapter 10: Resurrection

"God _damn_ you!" Tristan shouted. The stones quaked. It was the first time they had heard his voice. Arthur's body tumbled out of the window and back into the tower, rope unraveling from his neck with a flutter. Excalibur toppled from the wall, the sound slicing through the air. Tristan's arrow had sailed into the sky and disappeared. Tristan lowered his bow, tendrils of hair still caught in midair and eyes narrowed. Arthur looked up at him, and the scout did not recognize his eyes. The Roman reached back and found Excalibur like a lost limb, taking up his blade as he rose to his feet.

"Now there is the Arthur I remember," said Tristan.

"That Arthur is dead," the Roman replied. Tristan threw his bow to one side and brandished his own blade, the curve glinting in the light. Excalibur swung up and met the sword. Tristan turned in a circle and barely missed Arthur's side, instead clashing with Excalibur again. Their eyes never parted.

"Why have you come?" Arthur questioned.

"To bring you to life." Strike, block, turn, block. Arthur's head snapped to one side when Tristan's blade cut across his cheekbone, just enough to draw blood. The scout froze in his stance for a minute, body half turned at the waist, holding his blade like a horizon between the two men. The moon hovered as the sun sunk. Arthur slowly met his eyes once more, lips parted because they should have been bleeding.

"Why do you do this? I have no life to spare." Tristan didn't answer. He shifted his feet, planting them on the stone and facing Arthur. His sword hung at his side, almost quaking with desire. Arthur stood as a tormented statue, unfinished. "Come," he said. "Do what you came to interrupt."

* * *

Galahad drifted in the world of dreams. He felt as if his body was rising in the air like a cloud. Perhaps he was floating in the sea. No land lay for miles around, not within sight. He was destined to float to the edge of the world, until finally sinking. A man's smiling face flashed in his mind for an instant. He could not remember his name. All he could see was the sky bowing her head to meet his eyes. He smiled.

"Gawain," he breathed. It stumbled off his lips like something familiar. What was it? He didn't know what it meant. Perhaps it was Latin. It sounded pretty as Latin did. Since when did he think Latin was pretty? That was another man…. "Lancelot." He remembered him.

Gawain slept restlessly in his old room. It still belonged to him, but he didn't feel that it did. He felt as if he lived elsewhere and was only returning to an old home for a little while. The shadow would not leave his heart, as Galahad remained in the ward, struggling to live. Or perhaps his friend was struggling to die. He did not know. Yet in slumber, he feared naught.

"_Brother._" A whisper came in the dark. It was something beautiful. A light began to shine faintly, growing brighter and brighter. Green eyes blossomed, filling his mind. He knew those eyes. He could see himself in their light. The smile came next, though he could not see it. He knew it was there, as if it was the wind. Gentle fingers touched his brow, and he rose into them. Another brow met his own, and the eyes were there.

"I remember you," he said. The eyes glimmered. He knew the smile. Hands framed his face, and lips touched his brow and those eyes closed for a moment. "Where are you going?" Gawain asked. "Don't go." Smile. The fingers slipped away, and the light began to fade.

"Galahad." The name was light itself, purer than all things, nobler than most men. He next saw the curls, bathed in white light. The head lifted, and the eyes shone again. Gawain's own pools shivered in his dream. He was breathless with awe and longing.

"Galahad!" he cried. The white light blared before parting, and a white steed bore Sir Galahad into view, curls swaying with each hoof beat. The knight dismounted and neared him, kneeling at last. All he could see were those eyes and that face. Galahad smiled.

"_I have come to save you." _

_How could that be?_ Gawain thought. _You are the one who needs saving._

* * *

Tristan glided toward Arthur, sword held before his chest. Arthur gripped Excalibur but did not move. The scout's eyes blared. The reflection was the only light in Arthur's eyes, for they were hopeless now. Tristan was slowing down. His blade did not quiver. Suddenly, he whipped around in a full circle, his sword cutting one around him in the air. Instead of meeting Arthur's neck, it snatched Excalibur out of the Roman's hand. The sword flipped up into the air and Tristan caught it with left hand, head cocked over his shoulder and his back to Arthur. The Roman didn't move.

"Give me my sword," Arthur demanded, eyes locked with the scout's.

"No," Tristan said, grimacing and tight-lipped. He had never denied Arthur.

"I _order _you." Excalibur did not waver in Tristan's face. The scout stared through narrow eyes for a moment, being the first to hear Arthur pull rank. He couldn't deny that the Roman would use the sword against him now. He never thought he would witness the Christian become human.

"No." Tristan didn't flinch. Arthur gave him a hard stare for a long time.

"Then I command that you be rid of me by your own blade."

* * *

Bors trudged to Dagonet, who was standing very still at a battlement. He was like Arthur. He always climbed to the wall top when he needed to think, when he needed to be alone. Bors slid alongside him. Their eyes squinted in the breeze. Bors had a drink in his hand.

"When are you going to stop drowning this in ale?" said Dagonet.

"When are you going to tell me what you think?" said Bors. They remained silent for a while.

"He's out there," said Dagonet.

"Lancelot, Arthur, or Samhain?" Dagonet didn't reply.

"Galahad's dying," he said instead.

"Don't you say that," Bors snapped. They still did not look at each other. They hadn't since they returned.

"Why? Because you know it's true?"

"Because I know it's not."

"What makes you think he didn't die a long time ago?" asked Dagonet. Bors didn't answer.

* * *

"Do it, Tristan," Arthur sobbed. "Do it." Tristan only breathed to show that he was yet alive, though his gaze remained fixed on his captain. If Arthur's eyes were not so full of tears, he might have seen the gleam in his scout's eyes, something that had never been there before in all the years of his service.

"Do it, for God's sake," Arthur pleaded. "Do it, Tristan. I have no other life. My heart is dead. My Lancelot is gone." He shook with weeping. "Do it!" he screamed, throwing Excalibur at the wall behind his scout. It clanged on the stone and fell to the ground. The scout had thrown it at him in disgust. Tristan didn't move.

"Why do you not look for him?" he whispered.

"Because I know," Arthur gasped, barely audible. "I know in my heart. He is dead." A tear fell from Tristan's eye.

* * *

Gawain woke from his dream without a fuss. The candle was almost gone now, the wax still a liquid puddle around the disfigured remnant. The flame flickered and flickered again, as he turned his eyes to its glow. Galahad. He needed to go unto Galahad. Gawain threw back the coverlet and swung his legs out of bed. He pushed them into his boots. He still hadn't shed those clothes. They carried the weight of memory. He could still smell Galahad's blood in the threads.

* * *

"For so many years, you have spoken of your God," said Tristan. "And what now? Do you abandon your own cause when hell looks at you at last? Do you turn to fear?"

"Who do you love, Tristan?" Arthur looked up at his scout, mercy gone from him. He didn't care what pain he cause. He didn't care anymore. "Who do you love?" It was a whisper. Tristan did not answer, his eyes a hard stare. "Anyone? What heart beats in your chest? You obey orders, you spill blood for pleasure, you live both by chivalry and by your own secret code of honor. But who do you love?" The wind whispered in Tristan's hair. His heart beat in his eyes. "And what do you know of love?" Arthur breathed. The tears trembled again. "What do you know of pain? How can you stand there and do nothing, feel nothing?" he yelled. Tristan waited for a moment.

"I thought I loved you," he said. He threw down his sword and turned his back on his captain for the first time.

* * *

Galahad's skin gleamed in the candlelight. Gawain moved his fingers into his friend's curls and became compassionate again. He was no god. All he could do was wait and remind Galahad of his love with his fingers. His eyes rested on Galahad's face, as he stroked the curls. He could almost pretend that it was spring, and that they were in the meadow where pink blossoms grew. He could almost see them folded over Galahad's edges, petals nestled in his hair. He could almost see light, a soft light akin to the light in his dream. Galahad was sleeping. Yes, he smiled. That was all. Slumber. Gawain leaned forward, nearing Galahad's face. His hand lay still now, between Galahad's brow and hair.

Galahad took in a breath. He dreamt. He could see a white light, and he knew peace again. The light diminished until it was only a soft glow around the approaching figure. The man knelt before him, and Galahad knew his eyes. They were gray… Or maybe green? He couldn't tell. The man smiled at him.

He would be all right. He could see it in those eyes. He said nothing.

"Dream," whispered Gawain. He smiled, fingers barely moving over Galahad's hair. "But come back to me." He didn't realize Galahad's approach to death. Galahad didn't either. But theirs was a fine a farewell.

* * *

Arthur didn't answer Tristan. He didn't have any more room for emotions. He hung his head and thought of Lancelot. He wondered what the Saxons would with the Sarmatian's body, if Lancelot was even dead yet or if they were still tormenting him. No, he thought. They wouldn't have waited this long after defeat to take their anger out on the nearest live victim.

He could jump. The tower was far enough away from the ground. Tristan wouldn't even watch. Arthur would disappear.

Wait…. The child. How could there be a child if Lancelot was dead?

_Lancelot beamed with the widest grin Arthur had ever seen, as he squatted and spread his arms. A little boy hurried through the light, smooth curls bouncing. The sun caressed those black coils and he smiled at Lancelot as he leapt into those outstretched arms. Lancelot stood and began to spin, almost laughing, and the child tipped his head back with giggles. Arthur smiled sadly as he watched those little hands on Lancelot's shoulders. The Sarmatian stopped at last, and the child's face suddenly filled his sight. His eyes were blue._

"Arthur." The Roman snapped his head over his shoulder. He knew the voice. It couldn't be that voice... Though dead he had been since his escape, Arthur now lived again, thrown out of his insides as if he had been held under water. He felt. God, it was cold.

"Arthur." Lancelot sagged against the rounding stones, not yet at the open door. He held his side, heaving with pants and gasps. His lips flickered into a smile for only a moment. Tristan's eyes were fixed on him too. Once the disbelief wore off, it was the scout who dashed to Lancelot, flinging the door against the wall and taking his comrade in his arms. Arthur couldn't move.

"Lancelot!" Tristan gasped, eyes wide as he fell to the steps with Lancelot in his arms. The other knight lifted his eyes into the scout's. "You came back," said Tristan. Lancelot smiled. He bowed his head before pushing Tristan's arms away gently. The scout did not resist. Lancelot lay on the stairs, looking up at Arthur. Their eyes met, but Arthur's were nameless, while Lancelot's were full of hope. Tristan now looked to Arthur too, waiting for his captain to return.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Artorious Castus?" Lancelot asked. Arthur's eyes glimmered for an instant, and some may have thought it was only the light catching. Tristan knew it was the last handful of tears. One drop fell.

"Lancelot." The name escaped Arthur's lips as a jewel thought to be stolen. Another tear, swiftly living. Lancelot nodded, and his hand reached out. Arthur took one step, two steps, tears soothing his reviving eyes. He knelt, sitting on his heels, and Lancelot couldn't reach him. Arthur hung his head and wept, but Lancelot did not know why. Tristan did. He gave one last tear.

"Arthur," Lancelot called gently. His hand remained uplifted. Arthur looked at him finally, and all Tristan beheld in his eyes was defeat, regret, and overwhelming relief. Not just for Lancelot's survival. But for his own also. He sniffled at those tender fingers, somehow untouched by Saxon torment. Crawling, his face slid into that hand's caress. He held it to his cheek. Lancelot's eyes gleamed, as Arthur's closed and the Roman's free hand reached out to pull Lancelot into him. Their bodies met in an embrace beyond the power of poetry, too true for words to cheapen. Tristan remained sitting on the stairs, back against the wall, and he smiled at them with calm seas in his gaze.

The sky opened up and let down rain.


	11. Chapter 11: Water

A/N: WHEE! It's done! And it's long! Yes! I like this too, it's so damn fluffy! WHEE!

Thank you so much to all my readers and reviewers! I love you! You do so much for me!

Please read and review this, I'm so happy with it!

And if you haven't already, go read and review **The Rising by Yseult**!

THIS IS NOT THE END!

* * *

Chapter 11: Water

Tristan and Arthur carried Lancelot down from the tower and toward the healing ward, where Jols stopped them in shock.

"By the gods!" he gasped. "Lancelot!" The Sarmatian gave him a tired smile.

"He lives," said Arthur. "Now go fill the tub in the spare ward room with warm water."

"Yes, milord," said Jols, still ogling Lancelot. Even Tristan's lips twitched, before he and Arthur continued on with Lancelot. They took him to Arthur's room first, where Tristan left the knight to his captain. Lancelot fell asleep without a word more, as Arthur stripped him of his ragged clothes and wrapped him in the Roman's own cloak. He carried Lancelot to the spare room, where Jols had already left the tub full.

And then, as carefully as he could, Arthur lay Lancelot's battered body in the tub, hand cradling his head. Kneeling patiently on the stone, he began to wash Lancelot with a sponge, while the knight slept onward in the warm water. Lancelot's brow glistened after Arthur cooled it, and the Roman's eyes shone at the slumbering face framed with curls.

"I had a dream," Said Arthur, moving the sponge over Lancelot's brow and down his cheek. "Do you know what I saw?" The Sarmatian did not stir, face flushed with fever. "Your son." The noise of colliding water cut up his whisper. "He had blue eyes," he said.

He guided the sponge down Lancelot's neck, until it met with his breastbone. Arthur squeezed it when he reached that place. He had always loved Lancelot's breastbone more than any other part of his body, except for his eyes. When he touched it, he almost felt like he could reach down into Lancelot's chest and take hold of the knight's heart. Oh, how many times he had wished to do so before, to take Lancelot's heart and urge it to beat, when it seemed that it had stopped.

"And your curls." He smiled for an instant, dipped the sponge back into the water. "He had your laugh." Arthur wanted to drop the bloody sponge and take Lancelot's head in his bent arm. He wanted to hold Lancelot for the rest of eternity, never let go, never be without his knight again. "But he was soft. Perhaps that was his mother in him." He dabbed at the Sarmatian's cheek. "Or maybe it was you – you before all of this." Arthur barely remember Lancelot as a boy, the boy who had first come to his service all those years ago. They had all been somber then, his knights. Angry with him and Rome. Slowly, with love, Arthur had won them over.

"He was free," the Roman grinned. "He was not Rome's soldier. I knew. He will have the life you dream of." The water dripped from his hand into the tub, loud in the otherwise silent room.

"What was his name?" Lancelot's voice manifested exhaustion, and his eyelids drooped halfway closed even now. Arthur stared at him.

"I don't know." Lancelot shut his eyes and sleep took him again.

Arthur lifted Lancelot out of the tub carefully once finished, the Sarmatian's limp body dripping. Using the cloak again, he dried his friend and lay him down gently on the cot provided him. He knew which ointments to use. They were already laid out for him in jars on the table. He rubbed them into Lancelot's face, arms, chest, back, belly, and legs. He wrapped the knight's torso in bandages for Lancelot's battered ribs, wrapped any open wounds and stitched them if necessary, and then came time for him to lay Lancelot on his belly to tend his backside. Arthur handled this delicate task with modesty and respect for Lancelot's dignity. He was as gentle as any man could ever be with anyone, and he made it quick. Once all was through, he gave Lancelot a new tunic and trousers and carried his knight back to his room.

* * *

Tristan stood at one of the many battlements at the top of the wall, hair rippling in the breeze. With narrow eyes, he looked out to the twilight. The sun had disappeared below the hills, but the light still clung to for as long as it could. He didn't want to think of what had happened in the tower. He didn't want to think about what Arthur almost did, but more than anything else, he didn't want to think about his own confession. Emotion was weakness. He had learned that before the whole Round Table, just days after arriving here as a boy. A warrior could afford no emotion. A warrior could afford no weakness. A that's what he was. A warrior.

"I thought you'd be up here." He glanced over his shoulder to see Arthur approaching but turned back to the land beyond when the Roman stood beside him. "Lancelot will be all right," Arthur said. It still sounded like self-assurance to the scout. Tristan did not say a word, and a long pause of silence stretched between them. "I came here to tell you something," said Arthur. The skies hovered around Tristan's quivering heart, a gray shroud of uneasiness.

"What?" he said, looking to his captain. Arthur's eyes flickered when faced with the Sarmatian's.

"I shouldn't have said those things to you. Forgive me." The scout averted his gaze, his eyes narrow again.

"'s no matter," he said in a raspy tone.

"Tristan, look at me." The scout obeyed. "I have never undervalued your presence in this fellowship. You are a gifted scout and an essential part of the Round Table. If not for you, much would be lost now that need not be." Arthur lay his hand on the Sarmatian's shoulder.

"Thank you for all you have done. I know not if you love me still, and I do not deserve that love if you do. But trust that you have my love as well."

Tristan's eyes bore deep into Arthur's, and the Roman almost trembled inside. He had never had the chance to look into Tristan like that. After a moment, the scout gave a short nod and slipped away from Arthur's hand. Yet as he took the first few steps toward the stairs, Arthur moved from twitching urge and pulled Tristan's hand, forcing the knight to spin back around and into the Roman. He was stiff in Arthur's embrace at first, but the Roman did not let go until he felt Tristan relax. He bit his lip when the scout's arms curled around his back. Tristan's eyes were stinging, though he refused to admit it to himself.

"You're not alone, you know," Arthur whispered.

"I know," said Tristan. It would rain again. "I know."

* * *

Lancelot smiled as he glimpsed Arthur through heavy-lidded eyes. His body lay in a heavenly cloud, a cocoon of warmth. If he remained still, he did not ache.

"You're awake," Arthur murmured. Lancelot lay in the cradle of Arthur's legs, his head on the Roman's heart. Arthur's arms encircled him, and the Roman smiled in the candlelight, looking down on his friend.

"Arthur," Lancelot began. "Did you really call me your baby?"

"Hush, Lancelot," Arthur blushed. "You need your rest." He pulled the blanket up, nearer Lancelot's chin. The knight grinned with his eyes closed.

"That's all right, Arthur. You can call me anything you like, so long as the others aren't around."

"And what am I to call you when they are?" Arthur asked.

"God," said Lancelot. Arthur snorted and the knight smirked.

"I think I'll keep to your name." They fell asleep without any knowledge of the perils unfolding.

* * *

"I can't take this any longer," said Bors, eyes searching the dark with a drunken glaze. "Galahad's dying, Gawain won't see it, and Lancelot isn't promised his life either."

"He'll be all right," said Dagonet. Bors glanced at him only for a moment.

"We're all mad because of them," he growled. "Those damn Saxon bastards." He shifted, trying to put as little weight on his wounded leg as possible.

"How is it?" Dagonet asked.

"It don't matter," Bors mumbled, drinking.

"If it didn't, I wouldn't have asked." Bors almost smiled. Dagonet looked back to the night too.

"We've got to do something," said Bors.

"Like what? We're all here, all safe. Now is not the time for vengeance."

"Samhain's not."

"What?"

"Samhain," said Bors. "He's still out there."

Galahad found himself in a boat. He was alone in the middle of a sea, in a world of gray. He suspected he must be dreaming. He dipped his hand into the water. It felt real enough. Foreboding began to creep into his chest as he straightened. Behind him, land lay far off but seemed to disappear instead of running all the way east and west. An island? In every other direction, only water lay.

"Hello?" he called. "Hello?" The water moved beneath his boat, making little noises when it sloshed against the wood. He searched his surroundings over again, eyes dark with uneasiness. He realized he was without weapon, only dark clothes. As he sat down, something beneath the seat on the other side of the boat caught his eye. He reached out and picked it up.

"Lancelot?" It was the wooden pendant. The water sloshed.

* * *

"What is this about?" Tristan questioned, stroking his hawk. The torch flame flickered near him, light moving on his face.

"We suffered under the captivity of the Saxons," Dagonet began, looking out to all the knights of the Round Table. "You all know what crimes were committed there, in the wood."

"Sins," Bors hissed. "That's what Arthur would call 'em."

"Gawain is not in his right mind," said Dagonet. "So overcome with grief for Galahad, who even now lies dying in the slow grips of fever and delusion."

"And Lancelot is not yet promised his life," said Bors. "If he dies, you know what will become of Arthur." The knights stared at their two comrades in dark fear. "And then – what will become of us all?" Bors and Dagonet spoke in low tones, foreboding cast as a shadow in their every word. Only Tristan did not quiver at it.

"What are you saying?" asked Percival, voice meek.

"I'm saying we ought to do something," said Bors, head snapped to face the younger knight.

"We seek justice for these wrongs done us, these evil trespasses. And do you not all long for it in your hearts?" Dagonet's eyes moved over the whole room. "Do you not all secretly crave blood – in the darkness of your minds?"

"To tarry into the wood now would be folly," said Tristan. All the others turned to look at him. "So soon after escaping. We are not of the same strength, the same mental capacity. And Arthur would never agree to it."

"We are not asking for Arthur's approval," said Bors. "I do not expect it."

"Are you suggesting we go without him?" Percival asked incredulously.

"I'm saying we do what we must as men," Bors growled. "In the names of our fallen comrades."

"What you speak of is madness," said Sir Luc, eyes boring into the elder knight with equal intensity. "We cannot face the Saxons without telling Arthur, without his leadership." He turned to speak those words to the whole room, rising to stand on the Round Table.

"Even if Arthur did know, what good would it do?" Bors questioned. "He will not leave Lancelot's side now, and it would only be a burden on his heart when he has borne too much already."

"Don't pretend like you keep him in the dark out of courtesy," Percival hissed.

"Whatever each man wants to think of my reasons, that is up to him. All that matters to me is this mission."

"What mission?" Luc shouted. "There is nothing of the sort without Arthur's command."

"Are you with us or without us?" said Dagonet. "We will go into the wood despite your choice. But we have decided, Bors and I. We will not let this pass without justice."

"Do you disguise vengeance with justice?" Luc spat, jumping down from the table and getting in Dagonet's face. "Do you use our brothers' suffering to excuse your own blood lust?"

"If I were you," said Bors, holding his jug of ale, "I would hold my tongue." His gaze threatened Luc with his hand blades. They held each other's eyes for a heavy moment, before Dagonet stepped back.

"Fine," said Tristan, commanding all heads once more. The hawk's yellow eyes sparked when it squeaked. "To slaughter we go. Every man willing. The rest can stay home." His boots clicked on the floor as he strode across the room and out the door.

* * *

"The rain." Galahad's whisper was a ghost in the heat of the ward.

"What?" said Gawain, leaning in toward his friend. Galahad's eyes wandered the ceiling.

"The rain comes at last."

"Galahad, what do you speak of?" The younger night murmured his friend's name, and Gawain's eyes traveled down Galahad's body, watching the ripples of shivering move up the younger man like the tide. Galahad began to cough, until he rocked the cot and Gawain held him against his chest. The elder knight uncorked his water-skin and tried to give Galahad a drink, but the curly-headed knight spluttered and writhed in Gawain's grasp.

"No!" he cried. "Not the water! Not the water!"

"Galahad?" Gawain said in dismay. The coughing continued.

"Help me!" Galahad pleaded, eyes glazed and staring out in front of him. "Help me please." His tone returned to a whisper, as Gawain lowered him back down on the cot. "I don't want to die."

* * *

None of them had slept, though the hour was late and deep into the night. They yet had time before the dawn, but they must be off before anyone woke to stop them. They knew the risks, the danger of being re-captured, the chance of death. Yet they fastened their armor back onto their bodies with Lancelot, Galahad, Gawain, Arthur, and Samhain in their hearts. None of them spoke in the stables as they readied their horses. A lantern hung on the wall was their only light now.

In the black of night, they filed out of the gate one by one. The stones kept their errand silent and let the others sleep in ignorance, the women and children and Roman soldiers. Bors led them, with Dagonet flanking him and Tristan off to one side. The hawk remained with its scout in the darkness. It began to rain.

* * *

Galahad looked up into Gawain's face with gleaming eyes, eyes that did not speak of someone well. He shivered, lip quivering, and his face burned with fever and shone with sweat. Gawain could not deny it any longer. His eyes filled with tears. He was so tired of weeping, so tired of this despair. Why could he not have peace? He clutched Galahad's hands in his own, knelt at his best friend's side.

"G-Gawain," Galahad shuddered numbly.

"Yes, Galahad," Gawain answered. The first tear fell. "I'm here. I'm here."

"I'm cold." And indeed, the young knight's hands were icy, even in the embrace of his friend's.

"It's all right, Galahad." Gawain sucked in a breath and stroked Galahad's curls with one hand. "You'll be all right."

"I-I'm sorry," Galahad whispered.

"No." Gawain shook his head. It was too much like the way he'd done it amidst the Saxons. He had been through this too many times before. "No, don't say that, Galahad. You didn't do anything. You never did anything." His eyes brimmed with tears, thick and trapped in the windows unto the world and his soul. Galahad's breathing was shallow and quick. The light was blurred in his sight, even Gawain's face.

"I…," he gasped. "I don't want to die."

"Then live," Gawain urged, squeezing his friend's hand. "Live, Galahad. Gods, don't do this to me. I can't do this." The seas had burst, overflowing down his cheeks. Galahad did not look at him now. The other knight's eyes rolled back, around, and he drifted away from Gawain, chest heaving. "Don't leave me," Gawain whimpered. "Please. Don't leave me." Galahad felt himself sinking into the middle of the ocean. He heard the bubbles, the surface rupture, before the darkness engulfed him. His breath hitched for a moment, the light in his wide eyes glimmered, and he fell limp.

* * *

Morning did not bring light unto Lancelot's quarters, but Arthur woke. He could feel the pale beams of dawn still lingering in the air, though he could not see them. He smiled, hope rising in him as a phoenix. Lancelot slept on beside him, surrounded by white. The Roman peered down at his knight and thought of an angel, if angels did sleep. His lips did stray into a grin from a smile, but his smile was such that the joy was plain, radiating up from his core like the sun. His fingers brushed at Lancelot's curls, his body held with grace. Lancelot would sleep for a long time yet. Sleep had been denied them for so long, true sleep where rest was given their mind and body alike.

"Then sleep on, sweet friend," Arthur whispered, eyes passing over and over the Sarmatian's face, admiring peace like the founders of paradise. "Sleep until life bids thee wake to join the living in the light of day." The choirs filled his head as he looked at Lancelot then, and he saw a light that no one else might see, soft and pure from a place unknown. He was glad the voices were back. "But until then," he said. "let your body find healing in the light of dreams, and let your heart find peace."

Lancelot dreamt of water. The sky met the sea in a veil of gray, and the water was dark without sunlight. He walked on the shore, below the woods, looking out to the endless waters. No bird or breeze accompanied him, and he wondered at the silence. But choirs came to life when his eyes fell upon something floating far off, something that looked to be as a man. His eyes widened, his breathing quickened, and he stopped before heading out into the water. A man – it was a man.

"Galahad," he gasped. He dove into the water, disappearing. When he resurfaced, he began to swim toward the body. The splashing reverberated throughout the world. How Galahad floated there, he did not know, but as he neared it almost to the point of taking hold, Galahad began to sink. "Galahad!" he struggled in the water, trying to reach his friend in time. Water sloshed in and out of his mouth, making him cough when it seeped into his lungs. The water turned white when he splashed. "Galahad!" The younger knight's curls flashed before him once more before vanishing. Lancelot dipped down, but darkness seized him.

The Sarmatian bolted up in bed with a gasp, panting and eyes wide.

"Lancelot?" Arthur said, a bit bewildered. The knight looked to his captain with fear still clinging to his mind but slowly ebbing away. "What's wrong?" Arthur took him gently and lay him back down. "You need to relax. You'll harm yourself if you don't."

"I – I had a dream," said Lancelot, curls nestling back into the pillow.

"A dream? Would you care to talk about it?"

"No," said Lancelot, looking away and into nothingness. "No, it was.…just a dream." Someone knocked at the door.

"Yes," said Arthur. It cracked open to reveal Vanora, smiling.

"I brought you some soup, dear," she said, looking at Lancelot. "Potato." Lancelot sat straight up in bed, with Arthur's guiding hands to help.

"Thank you," he said in surprise. "It smells wonderful." He reached out for the bowl, but Arthur took it first. "Arthur, my hands and arms _do _work. I can feed myself, for gods' sake."

"Let me take care of you," Arthur cooed, and Lancelot sighed in defeat. Vanora smiled at the pair.

"Well," she began, "I think I'll leave you two alone. Feel better, Sir Lancelot." The men gawked as she shut the door behind her.

"Did she just call me 'sir'?"

"Don't worry, she'll hate you again once I let you out of bed."

"Arthur, by the time that happens, she'll be dead from old age." Arthur rolled his eyes.

"You're exaggerating," he said, stirring the soup with the wooden spoon.

"And you are still ghastly overprotective," Lancelot countered, grinning. "Not to mention doting."

"Doting?" Arthur echoed indignantly. "I don't dote on anyone."

"Arthur, you dote. You're sitting here, trying to feed me soup." Lancelot smiled despite himself.

"I do not dote," Arthur argued huffily, lifting the spoonful to Lancelot's lips. "Eat this." He blew on it lightly to cool it down, as Lancelot continued to grin and glow.

"Doting," he said, but Arthur pushed the spoon into his mouth and silenced him. Lancelot made a sound of pleasure.

"It's divine," he said. Arthur dipped the spoon back in the bowl.

"Hasn't it always been?" the Roman asked, giving Lancelot another mouthful.

"Of course. I had forgotten how it tasted after so long, that's all." A pause of silence followed, only interrupted by the stirring spoon.

"Arthur, you should eat something," said Lancelot, voice now quiet and somber. Arthur only fed him more, face weary still. Strange, he thought, how they had all forgotten about hunger during their captivity. The Saxons had given them nothing to eat for days, but no one had ever mentioned it. "Why do you insist on taking care of me and neglecting your self?" the knight questioned.

"Because I love you," said Arthur, offering another spoonful. Lancelot took it. His dark eyes watched the Roman intensely, as Arthur brought the spoon back to the bowl. He stilled Arthur's arm, and his captain looked up at him. He set the bowl aside on the table and Lancelot moved into him, leaning against Arthur's chest and resting his head on the familiar shoulder. Arthur's arms slipped around him and his own embraced the Roman. Arthur lay back on the pillows as Lancelot closed his eyes and sighed. Arthur stroked his curls.

"Sleep," he murmured. He wanted to remain in their embrace forevermore, where everything was love. Arthur's body cushioned Lancelot, never tiring of that duty. Lancelot's lips muffled a sound of distress.

"Your ribs," said Arthur. He slipped his hand under Lancelot's arm, cupping the Sarmatian's ribs gently. "Do they pain you?" Lancelot's brow furrowed, but all he said was, "Stay." Arthur didn't move his hand.

An hour passed before Arthur woke again. The warmth was a paradise around him. He shifted, rising up a bit, and watched Lancelot sleep. He could hear the knight breathing on his chest, arm resting on the Roman's belly. He smiled, stroking his beloved black curls gently. He felt so strange, freedom still fresh. Home, if he could call this wall his home, felt foreign. Part of him didn't believe this was real, that they were really here, escaped from Saxon hell. Part of him didn't believe any of it had happened at all. How could it have? Lancelot? Raped? And Galahad too? It didn't feel real. Maybe it was all a dream, a nightmare turned into this dream of Lancelot sleeping against him.

"You don't deserve this," he whispered. He shifted to lie on his side, settling his head down on the pillows. His brow lay against Lancelot's, and the knight did not wake from healing slumber. Arthur's eyes stared at the knight fixedly, committing Lancelot to his mind and his heart, taking him deep into the Roman's soul. Arthur's hand moved over Lancelot's cheek, pushing the curls back. "You never deserved this."

"Arthur!" Jols burst through the door, panting and flustered. The Roman sat up. Lancelot woke.

"What is it, Jols?"

"They've gone!"

"Who?" prompted the Roman. "Who's gone?"

"The knights, my lord! They've gone out to the wood!" Arthur's face fell.

"They did WHAT?" shouted Lancelot, now up from the pillows as well.

"I – I don't know. They were gone before the sun rose. I only just found the empty stables now. None of them are in their rooms, except Galahad and Gawain. They're still in the healing ward." Arthur's eyes glimmered as he lowered his head, lips parted in shock.

"They've gone after the Saxons," said Lancelot. "Those mad bastards."


	12. Chapter 12: Distortion

A/N: Finally. I've written this chapter. Please forgive me for the absurd delay. Believe me, I'm fully disgusted with myself. This chapter was – hard in coming. And there's been a lot going on in my reality too. But enough of the excuses. I'm sorry. This chapter is also not as long as I wanted it to be, to my further disappointment. I hope it's all right, nonetheless. Thanks to all of my wonderful readers and reviewers, especially for your patience. Your support means worlds to me.

Please R/R! Thank you!

* * *

Chapter 12: Distortion

Arthur's eyes crumbled. Jols could only offer a look meant to be hopeful but was closer to helplessness. Lancelot watched Arthur's back and didn't miss the flitting breaths. He waited. The Roman lowered his gaze to the floor, suddenly overwhelmed. Gone. His knights were gone. Without him. All kinds of hellish thoughts started to pour through his mind, and he was drowning. What in God's name had possessed them to think that they could do this now? They lacked his leadership. They lacked Lancelot and Galahad. They were all mentally and emotionally unstable, weak and traumatized. They were not fit for battle, let alone a Saxon confrontation.

"Sir?" Jols prompted.

"Ready my horse," said Arthur absently. His eyes remained detached. Jols assented and turned on his heel swiftly.

"You can't be serious," said Lancelot. Arthur turned to peer at him.

"I have to," he said. "They're riding to death." Lancelot's face voiced his pain. Arthur was torn.

"I won't keep you from going," said the Sarmatian. "And I can't ask you to promise me you'll return." Arthur knelt at his bedside and took his hand.

"I will," said Arthur. "With God as my witness, I will." They're eyes locked and conversed.

"I can't do this without you," Lancelot whispered.

"Yes, you can." Arthur squeezed his hand.

"No," Lancelot choked. Tears sprung in his eyes. He shook his head. "I can't, Arthur. I – I don't know how to handle this." Arthur took Lancelot's face in his hands.

"Listen to me," he began. "We'll do it together. I won't leave you in this world alone now. I'll come back. And we'll make it. You and Galahad – all of us." Lancelot stared at him, eyes shining.

* * *

Gawain snapped his head over one shoulder at the uproar of noise. Women's shrieks accompanied gasps and manly sounds of denial and shock. Some of the physicians left their duties and moved down the dim ward toward the crowd outside. He looked back to Galahad, who was caught in the grasps of fever still, and resisted curiosity.

"What's going on?" he asked one of the healers who hurried past.

"The knights have gone," the man answered. "Can you believe it?" He had a northern accent.

"Gone?" echoed Gawain. "Gone where?"

"Out to the wilds," said the healer. "For the Saxons. Arthur's going now."

"You mean they didn't tell him?" Gawain almost shouted. The healer shook his head.

"Nay, sir. That's why everyone's makin' that noise." He left Gawain in disbelief.

"Gods," said the knight. "They couldn't have been that drunk." Galahad shivered quietly, twitching with whatever dreams haunted him. Gawain hung his head in his hands.

* * *

Arthur had left. Lancelot didn't know if he was gone from the Wall yet, but he had left the Sarmatian in his room. He had looked at Lancelot, kissed his hand and squeezed it, stood tall, and turned his back on the knight without looking back or hesitating. The red cloak swished again. Suddenly, Lancelot felt alone for the first time in years. He hadn't even felt this way after the Round Table had left him with the Saxons. No, it was only now – now, when his best friend left him to his own demons in order to save all the other knights. Now, when Arthur chose them over Lancelot.

The knight mentally slapped himself. He couldn't think of it that way. It was silly. It was unreasonable. But that's how it felt. He grimaced, tears escaping his eyes anyway. That's how it felt, damn it. Arthur may love him, but his love could only go so far. And it didn't go far enough to keep him from duty, even when Lancelot was screaming for him. But that wasn't the worst part. What hurt Lancelot more than anything else was that he knew – he knew that if it were he, he would stay with Arthur. He would always stay with Arthur. Because his love _did_ go that far. His love was boundless. His love was unconditional. He didn't give a damn about anything in this world except for Arthur. Even his desire for freedom was diluted by his love for Arthur.

That was his secret.

And he would never confess.

He would take it to his ashen, eastern grave.

And meanwhile, he would scream.

In silence.

* * *

Galahad drowned. But it felt lovely. It felt like the bath he'd wanted for months. It felt like liberation and salvation and cleansing. Oh, to be cleansed. The water washed all the dirt away, all the ugly defeat and violation. And he was pure again. He was noble again. He was a knight and not a prisoner. He was Galahad. Yes, he was Galahad.

"Who are you?" The creature was floating, ripped edges of its black robes flowing in the breeze. It's eyes read Galahad's soul, and the Sarmatian couldn't stop it.

"I'm Galahad," he said. He had forgotten about Lancelot's pendant nestled in his hand.

"And who is that?" The pale face and blue eyes and black robes stood out in his world of gray. It watched him. It made him doubt.

"I – I don't know."

"Galahad." He shut his eyes. Where had the whisper come from? The pendant rolled out of his hand, and he didn't hear it hit the wood. He squeezed his eyes tighter. He didn't want to see the creature. He didn't want to hear any voices. He wanted to go home. He wanted out of this boat. He turned his back on the creature and opened his eyes, hands clenching the side of the boat. He stared into the water, too dark to reveal what lay beneath. It was like a mirror. It only showed Galahad himself, amidst the light reflections. But where was the light coming from? He could see no sun.

He pushed off and fell in.

* * *

Arthur didn't smile when Jols led his horse out of the stables. The beast was saddled and bridled, groomed and fed. It had only been home for a few days, just like Arthur. It didn't know where the Roman planned on leading him. If only it did – perhaps then, it would be too afraid and prevent Arthur from going. Jols inclined his head and offered the reins to the Roman. Arthur took them.

"Thank you, Jols," he said. He looked tired. He didn't bother trying to hide it. Whatever joy that had returned to him when Lancelot had come was now gone again. "Look after him."

"Aye, sir." Jols need not inquire whom Arthur spoke of.

The skies were gray. It would rain again. Arthur could almost hear Gawain's ritual curse at the island weather. He didn't smile. He couldn't. Gawain was in the ward with a dying Galahad. And even if his youngest knight pulled through, even if Galahad's heart kept beating and his lungs kept taking in air, even if he kept eating, kept drinking, Galahad would always be a dying man. Arthur knew this. And he wondered if it was better that Galahad die now instead. He knew that not even Gawain could mend that soul again. And what's more, Arthur knew he couldn't mend Lancelot either.

Some of the people had gathered, standing off under the stone and not stepping onto the brittle grass. They watched and they waited for Arthur to leave. Probably questioned the Roman's loyalty to Lancelot, his love and his priorities. Arthur knew this. It weighed heavy on his heart, like everything else. His face was all the grimmer. But he couldn't abandon the whole rest of the Round Table to the Saxons. He may love one more than all the rest, but he could leave the rest to slaughter for one. Duty lay with what was best for the Round Table, not what Arthur's heart desired.

* * *

Lancelot shook. The table quaked. His hand pressed against it, as he struggled to stand. His body exploded with aching. He began to gasp when a sharp pain bolted up through his chest. Beads began to gather on his brow. He pushed. Shook. Table earthquake. Trembling candle flame. The rattle echoed throughout the room. He let go and stumbled. Regained his balance. Still ached. He stood still for a long moment, quivering in pain, threatening to collapse. But his mind battled with his body. He refused to fall. He refused to stay inside these walls that smelled like Arthur, that his every memory possessed.

He was laughing. Arthur was smiling. Fire burned and meat cooked and musicians played. The men drank and the women served or sat on their laps. No women for him or Arthur. They remained alone together, watching all the others. His laughter boomed, his eyes twinkled, he bashed the table with his mug of ale. Arthur smiled and watched his knights, while Lancelot leaned toward him and said something. Lips moving unheard. Arthur looked at him finally. Said nothing. Eyes shone. Lancelot understood. Their moment passed in secret, in quiet beauty.

The Sarmatian opened his eyes and only then realized that he had closed them. Those days were gone. He wasn't the same anymore. And Arthur couldn't be the same either. Lancelot was damaged. Lancelot was captive. Lancelot was drowning. He could feel it. And he could feel it in Galahad too. The candle danced at his back. Light meant nothing now. He began to approach the door. Only darkness knew him. He left the black rosary on the floor.

* * *

"Galahad?" Gawain was suddenly human again, snapped out of his calm and patient reverie. Galahad had begun to choke. "Galahad?" The elder knight was leaning over in his chair, eyes wide and alive and searching his friend's face. Galahad coughed. As if he were drowning. Gawain took his shoulders and shook him. He called the younger man's name again, his panic rising. Galahad would not hear him, only fought with his own body for air. He began to turn blue, a pale shade of blue. Almost like a clear sky, the kind Gawain hadn't seen since leaving home.

"Physician!" He screamed more than once. The same man with mousy eyes and movements scuttled towards him after the third time.

"What is it, what is it?" he questioned. Gawain didn't answer and the physician didn't need him to. He hurried away, toward the back room where the supplies were kept. Gawain was at Galahad's head now, holding his friend against his chest, lifting him up a little in the hopes that it would allow Galahad to breathe. His best friend choked onward, head banging against Gawain's heart. And Gawain's heart pounded against its cage. The elder Sarmatian's chest was going to thin until a hole was made.

The physician returned with an old pillow and two bottles. He tucked the pillow where Galahad's head should have been, almost shaking with anxiety. Gawain lay his friend back down, but Galahad continued to sputter. The physician first offered those trembling lips a dark draught, but Galahad barely swallowed any. Instead, most of it washed his lips and rushed down his collarbone, disappearing under his neck. The physician's hands were shaking now. The bottle tipped over and the dark liquid flowed out over the stone. It reminded Gawian of blood. The healer failed in convincing Galahad's throat to accept water also. In fact, the fit worsened, and the water only jumped up into the air from Galahad's mouth. No one knew he was drowning.

"Do something!" Gawain demanded, kneeling now and holding Galahad down by the shoulders. The young Sarmatian began to reject his own blood, sending it away, past his lips. He was soaked in sweat, and his body shook. But he did not wake. The physician, at a loss of what to do, just stood in place and trembled with wide eyes.

"Do something, God damn it." Gawain hadn't lost desperation after all.

But Galahad stopped. The coughing faded. He grew still. His hand hung over the side of the cot, and his head fell to one side. Gawain stared. The physician looked from the elder knight to the younger. Gawain stared.

* * *

Lancelot struggled for every step. He would not be defeated into collapsing. He would not be kept in this dark passage, where torches were the only lights, even when it was day outside. He needed air. He needed gray sun. He needed to escape the voices in Arthur's room, his own and the Roman's. He didn't want to see. He couldn't handle the visions anymore.

The Saxons flashed into his mind.

"Oh, gods," he cried, stopping to heave against the wall.

Their jagged smiles and their gleaming eyes and their filthy hands had come back. The blood and the flesh and the screams. Oh, gods, the screams. His knees trembled. He couldn't tell voices apart any more – Arthur's and Gawain's and Galahad's were all mixed together. He didn't find his own amongst theirs.

He shut his eyes. He was on the shore again, watching a rowboat float off in the distance. No sail and no wind. No oars and no rower. But it floated. And somehow he knew that Arthur lay there, in the boat, though he could not see him. Excalibur's blade had no chance to gleam in the sun's absence. But it lay there too, the hilt against Arthur's silent heart and beneath the Roman's frozen fingers. Lancelot dove into the water, crossing the barrier he wasn't supposed to cross. He disrupted the quiet waters. He ventured into the darkness of unknown depths. He swam for Arthur, failed to hear himself scream the Roman's name through mouthfuls of water that lusted after his lungs. But when at last he reached the boat, it was empty. He dripped until the water might form a sea in the little boat. His eyes caught sight of the wooden pendant. His fingers did not recognize it.

"Arthur?" His voice flew away without an echo, disappearing in the endless expanse. He looked over the side of the boat, into the water. Galahad stared up at him, hand reaching toward him but never breaking the surface. He was white. Lancelot couldn't scream.

* * *

Arthur peered over his shoulder at the dirty faces that watched him, the silently judging eyes. Jols had left him. These people had not. They were waiting for him to leave, waiting for him to abandon Lancelot. They had always dripped through the cracks of the Roman's box, picking up on a moment here and a moment there, when he and Lancelot would share something that none of the other knights did. They knew of that love almost as much as the Round Table. And they were just waiting for Arthur to break it. They were waiting for this Roman to tell them that love was not the most important thing in life. They were waiting for him to act as a Roman instead of a man.

And he waited. He did not move yet. He did not care if this conversation between his eyes and theirs was obvious. He wanted to dare them. He wanted to dare any one of them to say that he loved duty more than he loved Lancelot. He wanted to dare them to say that he did not love Lancelot with a whole and God-like love.

"Love your neighbor as yourself," Christ said.

Did he not love Lancelot as much as he loved himself?

Yes. He did.

But he didn't love himself enough to abandon his entire Round Table.

* * *

Lancelot sat alone in the storeroom and cried. His shattered ribs trembled, and his every breath was a shudder of both pain and grief. He didn't know why he was crying. (Yes, he did.) His heart ached, and it wasn't because of the beatings. He was so sad now, so broken up and confused, that he didn't know why. He didn't know why it hurt or why he wept or why he felt any of the nameless emotions that drowned him out. He couldn't think. He cried.

He almost had the impulse to speak out loud, to give voice to his private sufferings. But his grief defeated that impulse into silence. His grief _wanted_ silence. It wanted all of Lancelot, even his voice. The pain was too great in the knight's heart for words. He couldn't even whimper. His tears were only accompanied by small gasps and heaving shudders.

He loved Arthur.

He loved Arthur more than he loved freedom.

Oh, gods, what would he do?

How could he survive?

How could he tell Arthur the way he felt?

How could he tell anyone?

He couldn't. He couldn't reveal this tender heart. He couldn't burden Arthur with the knowledge of such a love, when the Roman's first priority was duty, when Arthur didn't love him the same.

And so Lancelot cried. Because that's all he could do.

"What is it?" Gawain leaned in the doorway. He was unmoved. Lancelot looked up at him. He said nothing. His eyes glimmered painfully. Gawain left. He understood.

* * *

"Don't." Arthur looked to his knight. Gawain had stopped the Roman's hand at fixing his horse's reins. His eyes were steady and resolved. "I'll go." Arthur questioned him with his gaze. But Gawain didn't answer out loud. His face, his eyes, his body was hollow.

"I'll go." He swung up onto Arthur's steed, which didn't protest to having a different rider, and Arthur did not try to stop him from leaving. Men pulled the gate open, and Gawain crossed over into solitude, into the wilderness. His braided hair waved at Arthur, and his weapons bounced on his back. Arthur stood.

The banners of Rome rippled in the wind.


	13. Chapter 13: Separation

A/N: Holy shit. I did it. I finally fucking finished this chapter! Yes! 

Today is my birthday (or it was, until a few minutes ago, haha) so this is a present to myself and to all of you!

So, so sorry for the delay. The last few months have been difficult and writing was neglected…. But I'm so happy that I finally got this done. I'm sorry it's not as long as it should be.

I wrote this to **Tracks 7 and 15 of the Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban **soundtrack. Beautiful, beautiful music.

Please read and review! Summer is on, yes!

Warning: Major Angst Ahead

* * *

Chapter 13: Separation

Lancelot sniffled, head hung and face wet. He took a shuddering breath and his body trembled. The pain had returned full-force. He didn't want to move, sure as hell didn't want to try standing. His heart hurt more. He stared at is hands and his fingers but could only make see blurs. He hadn't bothered to ask Gawain where he was going, and he didn't care. He was drowning. He wanted death to come. He wanted it fast. Life has been slow. Pain had been slow. He needed the end in one final blow. No drawn out torture, like the Saxon captivity.

At last, he began to pull himself up, pushing off of the crate. His brow creased, the veins in his neck tightened, and he gritted his teeth. They gleamed like his skin. He dug his boot into the ground, refusing to falter. He staggered when he let go of the crate, but he did not fall. His chest was a pulsing fire, and it stung to breathe. He coughed. Blood. His eyes shone. They only lingered on the red slime for a moment, before denying it's presence on the ground. He held his side and began to struggle away, stray tears still leaking out of his eye corners and through the creases the pain pulled from them. The blood moved in the dirt.

* * *

Arthur half-squinted at Galahad's face. The physician waited nervously behind him, fearful that the Roman would throw a fit. He didn't know Arthur well. Otherwise, he wouldn't have expected any such outburst from him. Arthur stared. But he only saw Galahad half of the time. The other half, flashes of memory seared through his mind, cutting through it like a knife through a sail. They left tatters in their wake. 

Galahad was white.

_Tristan's body flinched even when he didn't make a sound at the whip._

Galahad didn't move.

_They dragged Lancelot's body to the tree and heaved him up – lit the bale. _

Galahad didn't breathe.

_The Saxons laughed, and Lancelot threw himself into the sky. _

Galahad was dead.

Arthur sighed with closed lips. His eyes glimmered with pain at Galahad, sweet Galahad – Gawain's flower. This explained everything. Gawain had gone to his only duty, his only purpose. Nothing was left here for him now. He had cleaned the blood from Galahad's face, smoothed through the curls and the blanket covering the younger knight's body. He had left the wash cloth folded next to the water bowl on the crate. He had abandoned his chair. And Galahad was beautiful, as he had always been – white youth, not a thread out of place now, when he lay released and conquered. And Gawain was out there somewhere. He was out in the wind, without a soul. Arthur grew grimmer at the thought. He did not expect Gawain's return. He turned on his heel and left. The physician stayed. He drew the blanket over Galahad's face.

* * *

Gawain's horse had stopped. He remained a lone figure in the wind, hair lifted up and soul carried away. He was on their trail – his fellow knights. He just wasn't sure if he wanted to go any further. He considered disappearing. He didn't know where he would go or what he would do when he got there, but some part of him figured it was the best thing to do. He supposed the only place left to him were the white cliffs of this damn island, high enough to lift him into light. Sarmatia wasn't home anymore, and the Romans would hunt him down across their whole, bloody empire like the bastard dogs they were. He couldn't very well become a Woad – that was insanity. He wondered if he might cross the water to the Western Island, where the Celts ran rampant in their paganism and rivaled the Woads for Britain. No – they wouldn't welcome a foreigner. He resisted a sigh. He didn't belong anywhere. 

He squinted though there wasn't any sun. His horse nibbled at their green hill. Gawain wondered if he should be weeping. Didn't all men mourn when they lost someone they loved? Should not he feel pain? His most beloved companion was dead. And he felt nothing. He had spent so many hours in the recent weeks in hysteria, and now, when hope as finally lost, he felt nothing. There was not any pain or longing or impulse to weep. He was dry-eyed and empty. He was more stable than he'd been in weeks. But in the back of his mind, there was the fear that when he least expected it, he would fall apart without warning. He didn't think he could take anymore emotion. At the same time, he no longer cared if he was beyond help. The only thing he had to think about now was where he would go.

He searched the land without knowing what he was looking for, without even seeing.

Galahad was laughing in his head.

Beautiful. Beautiful as always. Eyes full of light.

He thought for a second that perhaps he felt a twinge in his chest – but nothing.

He reached into one of his pouches, rummaging for his bottle of ale, and stopped breathing when he pulled out a scrap of cloth. It was a piece of Galahad's tunic, ripped away in a moment of rush to tend to him. Gawain moved his fingers gently, staring at it with shining, gray eyes.

He felt nothing. He felt nothing.

Galahad was laughing in his head, a piece of him was crumpled in his hand, and Gawain felt nothing.

What was wrong with him? Why was everything so much better than it had ever been since this trip through hell had started? What was he doing out here? Did he really plan on catching up to all the other knights and taking revenge on the Saxons now? What did it matter? They had already won.

They won. Galahad was dead. That was all. That was all for Gawain. Nothing else mattered. And if the rest of the Round Table wanted to get themselves killed on a belated quest for vengeance, then let them do it without him. He didn't have the motivation.

Gods, he wasn't even angry anymore. He should feel some sickening wave of hatred at the very thought of the Saxons, the reason for Galahad's death. His characteristic blood lust should be raging right now. He should be jumping at the chance to slaughter as many of them as he possibly could. But none of it was there. Nothing was as it should be. He should probably feel guilty for not feeling anything else, but even guilt failed to fill him. He was only confused as to why he felt as calm as he did, as blank as he did.

He tucked the cloth back into his pouch and straightened, muscles tensing. He had made no decision, but he was riding down the hill and after the knights in the next moment

* * *

Arthur wasn't surprised at the clouded sky. He was back at the battlement that he so often visited when he needed to think. A great and subtle sadness fell over his heart like a worn blanket. Galahad's death was a dull ache in his heart, not as deep or sharp as it should be. He had loved Galahad, just as he loved all his knights, and Galahad had been one of his men that he knew better than others. But the grief wasn't nearly as passionate as he would have thought. It made him feel worse, this weak pain, but no more pain itself. He knew that if it were Lancelot lying in there, he would not be standing here. He would be crumpled on the ground, weeping until there was nothing left, wailing like a woman until his voice was hoarse. But not for Galahad. It made him feel guilty. 

Galahad had been a good knight, one of the best. He hadn't always agreed with Arthur, but he had never disobeyed his captain's orders. He had followed Arthur as faithfully as any other knight. He had done his best when he should never have had to serve Rome at all. And he had been one of the youngest. Arthur didn't understand why the loss of Galahad seemed to be a minor blow. And more than anything else, he didn't understand how Gawain could have been so calm when the boy he loved was gone at last.

Arthur sighed. He should have known that nothing would ever be the same. He should have known that none of them were all right and perhaps never would be. So overwhelmed had he been with the return of Lancelot that for a fleeting time, he had believed that all was well. Now his Round Table was gone without him, and one more knight was dead. Perhaps he should have felt the urge for revenge too, but he was only sad, sad without the passion he should feel and sad with no real place to go to. Except back to Lancelot, the only one who could understand all of this. He straightened. So he had decided not to follow the knights, then. He pursed his lips. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake.

* * *

Gawain's horse tread through the forest steadily and with no haste. Instead of clopping onto stone, it only crunched down on the plants or padded on the dirt softly. He watched the earth passing below him and thought only of Galahad. The scent of their love was laced into his skin and his hair. Galahad was in his pouch, and happiness was with Galahad's body, hidden under a tattered, old blanket. And where was Gawain? And what was with him? Only memory – no longer joyous but bittersweet instead. The beginnings of grief were creeping onto the edges of his heart now. This wood held Galahad; his spirit was everywhere. They had come here together from the start. Gawain remembered those first few years when they had still been boys. 

"_Galahad, you can't fight without Arthur around." _

"_You're here with me. Why not?"_

"_Because he knows better." _

"_I don't care. We're better than Rome, you and I."_

_Gawain smiled softly at Galahad's ferocity. Galahad turned around._

Oh, those eyes.

_He took Gawain by the shoulders. "Gawain," he said, meaningful tone matching his gaze. "All we need is each other, you know. Us and home – that's all we need." _

"_And where is home?" _

"_Sarmatia," he said, eyes flickering with pain. "And we'll go back one day." _

_Gawain turned from him and tossed a stick idly into some plants. "I don't know, Galahad. I don't much care, really. I might like this island a bit more if it didn't bloody rain so much all the time." He grinned to himself and looked back to Galahad, but his friend wasn't smiling anymore._

"_I have to go home," said Galahad. "I have to." _

_Gawain pursed his lips and lay his hand on Galahad's shoulder. "Then you will. I promise you. I'll take you there." _

_Galahad lifted his hand up to Gawain's. "And once you do – will you leave me?"_

_Gawain searched his friend's eyes and silence passed between them – the moment when they became bound. "No," he said at last. "Never." _

_Galahad gripped Gawain's hand. "Neither will I." _

Gawain shuddered. His eyes were full. An empty silence filled his heart when the vision left him and he was looking at dirt again. He hadn't broken his promise. Galahad had broken it. And Gawain should be angry, but all he felt was sadness.

_Their laughter was music that sent the birds flying up into the heavens. Gawain threw Galahad to the ground and straddled his friend's hips, covering them with the stolen sheet he had taken from the cook. The light was orange and gold in their makeshift tent. Gawain beamed down at Galahad, and Galahad grinned up at Gawain. _

"_I told you we'd beat her," the elder said. _

"_You're crazy," Galahad chuckled. He lifted his arms up to Gawain, who beat him and began to tickle the younger boy senseless. The sheet collapsed and they were rolling in it, lost in the wildflowers and laughing. They couldn't even see, but they didn't have to. They were tangled in each other and they ached with laughter and gasped for breath. At last, they ceased and lay still, the sheet slowly sinking down to fit their bodies. They lay together in it, a mess, a lovely mess. _

"_The light is fading," said Gawain, staring up at heaven through the sheet, while Galahad lay against him, face against Gawain's and eyes closed. Gawain's breath pushed the sheet up, it fell down again, and he blew it up once more. Galahad's arm lay over his chest. Gawain's arm was loose around Galahad, while his other was bent under his head. _

"_It's like a cloud," Gawain smiled. Galahad breathed softly against him, reaching for sleep. _

"_Galahad." A distant voice. "Gawain." _

_Gawain smirked. The knights were looking for them. They said nothing. _

A tear fell at last. And another and another. Gawain could feel. He didn't want to. There wasn't even any passion. Only sorrow. He nudged his boots into his horse. He didn't even want to ride anymore. He only wanted to weep. But he dug and dug, until the beast ran, taking him faster through the wilderness. The trees blurred around him. He wept. He didn't know where was going, and he didn't care. The horse couldn't run fast enough to take away his tears. As he disappeared, deep into the wood, he screamed Galahad's name.

* * *

"Lancelot?" Arthur arrived upon an empty room. The bed still had the faint imprint of a human body, the blanket was wrinkled and half off the bed, touching the floor. The candle flickered on the table. Confusion set in to his face as he stood in the doorway. 

Lancelot's footsteps were heavy and loud on the stone. He leaned against the wall and willed his feet to climb the stairs. The wind moved through his hair, cooled his face. He was feverish again. But he was not going to bed. He was heading for the battlement above, where the ghosts of so many days and nights past still wandered. He grunted and half-sighed as he pushed his leg up another step. His face and neck were cold with sweat. His hand remained pressed to his side. Every muscle in his body throbbed and ached and weakened. Sleep, O, sleep – how sweet it sounded to him. But he could not embrace it now. He must handle this alone. Arthur wasn't here anymore to tell him what to do.

* * *

"Lora," Arthur said to the cook. "Have you seen Lancelot?" 

She was stirring a large cauldron of stew and the steam carried the meaty aroma to Arthur's nose. He wasn't hungry. She used both hands to move the wooden spoon. Her hair was tied up with a rag and her plump face was pink with the heat from the steam. She had been here since Arthur's arrival, years and years ago.

"I think he went to the store room," she said.

"The store room?"

"I believe so. Don't ask me what goes on in the boy's head. The lot of them have always been a handful of trouble."

Arthur smiled just a little. She stilled called them all "boys" though they were well into manhood. She had taken good care of them these years at the Wall. He saw something in her that he remembered about his own mother, and it made him sad.

"Thank you, Lora," he said and wiped his mother out of mind. He turned away and strode off, cloak swishing.

"Don't be late for dinner," she called after him.

* * *

Lancelot stared numbly at the rope, as it fluttered in the wind. It called his name. It whispered. It loved him. He didn't know if he could feel love anymore. All he felt was sin. And he didn't even believe in it. 

He took the final steps and didn't hear his boots on the stone. The wind was gentle in his ears, like a distant ocean that he could see. It flashed through his mind as he approached the window – gray sky and grayer water. Dark. He remembered stories his mother told him when he was child, stories of men who sailed the seas and condemned their prisoners to drown in the ocean, jump to their own death. He was walking the shore. He was ascending into the great sails, ascending into Arthur's heaven. He longed for green hills and horse's eyes. He heard the wind and nothing more.

* * *

Arthur had found the storeroom empty, and something in his heart told him to return to the tower. He gazed up as his boots fondled the stone steps, as if he were ascending to heaven. The torches swayed, and the shadows whispered. He almost felt like himself again, though he shouldn't when he was in this tower and Galahad was dead. Suddenly he remembered his young knight and Gawain together in this tower. He could hear the ghost echoes of Galahad's quick footsteps and Gawain's laughter, as they had flown up these same narrow stairs, so many years ago. He could see Galahad's bright eyes looking down at Gawain, a familiar, "You can't catch me," and the returning of that sparkling gaze from Gawain. Their hearts were in these steps. Lancelot's and Arthur's, too.

* * *

Lancelot was standing in the window. Arthur's window. The others were at his back, and he didn't pay them any attention. He gazed into the sea. It lay beyond the rope. He could hear the tide now – louder, louder in his ears. It soothed him. It hushed him. It coaxed him like a mother does her child. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. Pain rattled his ribs. Pain pulsed in his heart. Everywhere was numb. Everywhere was nothing. Empty. Done. 

He would be gone by the time Arthur came back. _If_ Arthur came back. No one would find him for hours. Maybe even days. Was this how Arthur had felt? Was this how Lancelot had made the Roman feel? Why did they do this to each other? Why did they finish what the Saxons started? They didn't even mean to.

Lancelot bowed his head, stepped into the rope, caught his first glimpse of the ocean below. The wind kissed his curls. The voices sang in faint moans. He could hear himself breathe. He was already underwater.

He jumped.


	14. Chapter 14: Meeting

A/N: Damn, I think I finally finished this chapter. I don't know what it's become so difficult to write this story. I'm grappling for the words, for the images, for everything. Maybe it's just laziness or distraction or something.

I listened to part of **Light of Life (Ibelin's Reprise) from the Kingdom of Heaven** soundtrack while writing this. I want the CD SO BADLY. Damn it.

Please Read and Review, even though I suck at writing and at updating in a timely fashion. Meh.

* * *

Chapter 14: Meeting

Lancelot flew out the window, and time slowed. His arms opened up like a bird's wings, embracing the light that broke through to him. Instead of jerking back and breaking his neck, the rope let him rise. It unraveled from its iron hold and flapped behind Lancelot, who shut his eyes as he floated in midair. The choirs had returned, drowning out the tide.

"Lancelot!"

He heard Arthur's scream somewhere in the back of his mind, but did not recognize the voice. The Roman rushed to the window with horror gripping his heart. Lancelot was only a momentary glimpse that fell below too soon. Arthur flung himself into the window, arm flailing, hand grabbing for his friend.

"Lancelot!" he screamed.

He jumped after him.

* * *

Tristan waited. His eyes, ever narrow, shifted over his quiet surroundings. He had parted from the others, as he often did, to assess their upcoming situation. He found nothing. But it was quiet – and that was never something to relax over. It was not his style, nor was it intelligent, to seek out hidden danger directly. And he wasn't stupid enough to believe that all was well either. He did what was best – waited.

He had never given much thought to his position. Arthur had made him a scout long ago, and he had grown into the role quickly and naturally. It was a part of him now. But every once and a while, he would observe his own job – one that required more solitude than any of the other knights had to take. It asked that he be the first to venture into any and every potential danger, for the good of the others – and to do it alone. It had made it necessary from the start that he be one of the best warriors – as close to perfect as possible. Anything less would condemn him to death. He must be precise with his weapons, fast and accurate and skilled. He did not know exactly how he had managed to become the scout Arthur needed him to be, but he'd done it. He could not deny that, despite his silence or any sense of modesty he might have.

He twitched his head to one side. Something had snapped – a twig or a blade of grass. He waited. The silence was heavy around him, like a blanket of smoke that pressed on his lungs. The skies were clear only because the clouds were absolute, covering all the space they were given. It would rain. He could smell it. He glanced down and caught sight of a rabbit sitting in some grass, nose moving. It wouldn't make a bad meal.

_Zip!_ An hour landed in the ground a few feet from him, startling his horse for a second, before he calmed it instinctively. The trees rustled. He looked up. Blue faces began to poke out from the wilderness.

* * *

Gawain heaved. His face was wet in the same way it had been for so many days before, gleaming – looking more like sweat than tears. He was deep in the wood now, but he knew that on either side of him lay open land, beyond the trees. Ahead was only more forest. It buzzed with life, creatures that never quite revealed themselves to men – though they were always there. The Woads learned their ways from these animals, he realized. He didn't know what to do now. He had exhausted himself for the time being, as far as grief went. He might cry more later, but he had to go somewhere. He couldn't stay here.

He looked up when he heard a screech. Familiar sound. A hawk's cry. He didn't know how many of them wandered these skies, but it couldn't possibly be Tristan's. Could it? He supposed it didn't matter anyway. His eyes wandered aimlessly, lost as his soul was. They stopped upon meeting a lavender thistle. It was no stranger to him. He nudged his horse along, closer to it. He sat still for a moment and looked at it, before dismounting and snatching it from the ground. It was delicate, light in his hand, with a strange sense of untouched beauty that he hadn't known in years. Perhaps not since he had left Sarmatia. He froze again. Maybe that's why he had taken to Galahad instead of the others. Maybe he had seen something – that innocence – in Galahad that he did not see in anything else. After all, his friend had been one of the youngest, one of the knights who did not particularly enjoy killing, who wanted to go home with a passion. Gawain had never been like that. He had never had a strong desire to go anywhere. He had at least had momentary fun in battle. He was one of the older knights. And in the early days, he had chosen Galahad with no real deliberation, to be his most important companion of the Round Table, the one he would watch over and protect and fight for.

Every knight needed something to fight for – just one thing. Trying to be the champion of the entire world or of a whole people was too overwhelming. It could only lead to disappointment and discouragement and, ultimately, death. But if each man only had one thing, it was something they could see and something that could motivate them the whole way through, without giving them a constant sense of failure or impossibility.

Arthur had chosen Rome. Lancelot had chosen Arthur. And Gawain had chosen Galahad. He had never quite known what Galahad had chosen. Probably home. Or his own freedom.

Anyway – what did this have to with the thistle? Another memory.

"_Look," said Galahad softly, twirling the thistle in between his fingers. Gawain glanced over at him. _

"_So?" He kept cleaning his ax. _

"_It's pretty, isn't it?" _

_Gawain shrugged. Galahad smiled at the rolling purple. It was raining outside. They could see it through the open doorway, as they sat in the stables. All around them, knights were tending to their horses or waiting for each other to finish, chatting and laughing and maybe even drinking. Galahad sat with Gawain because they always did for each other- unless, of course, they were in the middle of a fight. But since each would miss the other sitting with them, the disagreements never lasted long. _

"_I thought you hated it here," said Gawain. _

"_I do," said Galahad, nonchalantly. _

"_Then why find that plant pretty? It grows here and here alone." _

"_I don't know," said Galahad. "Try to find the good in everything, right?" _

_Gawain almost chuckled. "You're not usually the one to be optimistic, Galahad." He tossed the rag aside. Galahad did not answer him, and his smile had faded. Gawain looked at him for a moment, before taking the thistle from his friend and tucking it into Galahad's tunic, over his breast. Galahad smiled at him, and the lavender fuzz bristled in the wind from the rain. _

* * *

As Arthur flew down after Lancelot, a million memories rushed through him, like the air around his face. A million questions and a million ghosts shot through his veins with the adrenaline. His cloak was a red shudder in the sky, the last banner of love plummeting earthward with all of his dreams. He wanted to fly, wanted to rise, but he was falling for his friend, arms outstretched toward death when he should've only had hope. All he could see was Lancelot's curls whipping heavenward, squinting, eyes tearing, heart beating to stop.

"Lancelot," he yelled, as if he might still live were Lancelot to fall up into his fingers.

"Lancelot."

"_Lancelot, why so happy this night?"_

_That laughing smile gleamed at Percival, who passed by Lancelot as the fires danced with the women in the night. _

"_These women remind me of home," he murmured in Percival's ear. The elder knight gave him a knowing look, and Lancelot laughed. Arthur sat back and watched them all – his Round Table reveling in the slaves brought to the Wall. A new band of Romans had migrated up to live here, and with them came slaves from northern Africa and Palestine. Women with dark eyes and dark skin and dark souls, wild and exotic with their dances and their looks and their singing. They made music now with their strange instruments and sang in a language none of them knew. Arthur looked to Lancelot and smiled, for his friend was truly happy for the first time a long while. He wished he could make Lancelot smile like that more often. Alas, not even he held that power. He smiled sadly to himself. If only to restore home unto Lancelot's longing soul. _

_But maybe it was not Sarmatia that these knights truly longed for. Perhaps it was the home in themselves, the home in their dreams, their roots and their blood – the truth. And he could understand that. All men sought truth. The restless were the ones who found home but not peace nor themselves. As for Arthur, he found peace in God. The only thing that made him restless was the way of the world and his own longing for the glorious Rome he had dreamt of since childhood. _

_The flames and women's bracelets flicker in his gray eyes. They watched wistfully. One day, he would return to Rome. And on that day, God willing, these men would see the home they had convinced themselves was the keeper of their happiness. They would part ways, however many more years were still left until then. But even now, Arthur felt a stirring in his heart at the loss of his knights, though there were yet many more years to wait. _

_Perhaps he would never find peace or true contentment. _

_And that was his one fear. Perhaps the one fear of every man who ever lived._

_The pursuit of happiness. They strove all the days of their lives in that pursuit, pushing and pushing toward goal after goal, filling their days with bodily pleasures. But who really ever found the satisfaction? Who ever found it one man, one woman, one victory? Even in God, Arthur did not stop wanting. It was an uncomfortable nudge in his chest, a little seed of guilt and doubt. Did this dissatisfaction render him an untrue Christian? Selfish or spoiled? Ungrateful? _

_No, he thought, as he watched Lancelot laugh. He was grateful for this – for this love and for this night and for the earth and passion and wildness he felt in his heart, even as he sat still amidst the dancing. Spoiled? He did not know about that. He had never had an easy life, and yet it had been oceans easier than the lives of others. It made him guilty sometimes – the things he had in life, the ease of it all. He had food and water and clothing. He had a horse and a room and a God. He had his Round Table and he had this island to roam and live. He had Rome to belong to. It all seemed like too much, and he felt the urge to leave everything and hide away in a monastery somewhere, devoting himself to God with poverty and humility. _

_But for some reason, he couldn't. He felt himself tied down to this land, even whilst he longed for Rome. He felt himself tied down to Lancelot's pretty smiles and eastern eyes. He felt himself bound to this life of blood and what some people would call heroism. Chivalry. Nobility. Words that slid off his conscious like eels over stone. All it was, was duty. And yet it was more than that. He didn't know what else, but he felt it – something more, something that kept him from leaving it or regretting. _

"_Arthur!"_

_He blinked into Lancelot's distant eyes. _

"_Come on! Dance with us!"_

_He gave a weak smile and raised his hand in pacification. Lancelot did not turn away, waiting impatiently, stubbornly. Arthur wanted to laugh. One of the women was draped around his best friend, but Lancelot waited for Arthur. _

"_Come on, can't you dance?" he goaded. _

_Arthur shook his head. This wasn't his night. He didn't belong with these women – these foreign women. That's what it all was – foreign. _

_The woman kissed his knight. Lancelot turned away from Arthur's gaze. He stumbled away into the darkness with her, as Arthur watched. The choirs returned to his head. He knew as he watched their shadows moving that he was separate from Lancelot – no matter their love. He was apart. He was alone. The difference of country, of God, of ambitions, could not be breached. It made Arthur sad. He wished for a human being that could love him closely, that could love him internally. But it seemed that in his duty, in his Christianity, he could only know fleshless love that would only be confirmed in his death. _

"_Lancelot," he uttered. _

"Lancelot."

* * *

Tristan did not take up his bow nor draw his sword. He watched the Woads appear, reveal themselves. He felt the wind touch his hair as if he were a great oak, and he felt the sky stretch up far above him and all around him, a gray expanse of twilight and emptiness. He wanted to know what it felt like to fly. He wanted to become his hawk and get lost in the emptiness. Merlin looked at him with the same tired eyes he always held. Tristan's horse complained nervously.

"What do you want?" the knight called out. His horse whinnied, snorted.

The blue people were silent, standing out of the leaves in the wind's combing fingers. They looked and looked at this man who was so unlike them, their enemy who had never done them a personal wrong. Just another foreigner who didn't belong here, in their land, their home. He was too much like them, Merlin decided. All of them – Arthur's Round Table. A band of warriors who longed for home. That is all they killed for. That is all any of them killed for.

And Arthur for his Rome.

"Tristan," Merlin called out in his unsteady voice. The sound fell down to earth from the treetops like snow.

The knight's face became the face of a saint, the face of a lost and ancient beauty – upturned to heaven, a place that he didn't believe in. Without weapons but with vulnerability, he was divine in his parched lips and his scarred cheekbone and his gaunt face painted with cold and sweat and dirt and confessional tears that even God had forgotten. Tendrils of his dark hair floated in the wind. He waited. And his heart became an echo, a slow throb that moved his fingertips and his thoughts and the soul he persisted in denying existed. Murderers couldn't afford to have a soul. Or could they?

"We do not want a fight," Merlin said in his native tongue. It was sacred rain falling on Tristan's ears. He was the only one who understood it amongst the knights. It was choppy and rough-edged and nothing like Arthur's pretty Latin, which was no match for Sarmatian. If any language of men sounded like heaven, it was his own. The only exceptions were the Christian choirs. When Arthur had found them shelter in a monastery once, he had listened to those voices for hours, refusing sleep. He had never heard anything akin to that.

"What do you want?" he asked the Woad, his accent flying up into the sky like a thistle.

Merlin paused for a moment, staring hard at the knight. "We know – what the Saxons have done."

Tristan held his gaze, while his horse shuddered.

"You have come here for vengeance," Merlin said. His voice seemed to stretch out in the twilight expanse, reverberating.

"I have come for justice," Tristan answered.

_Arthur wept, as they raped Lancelot, and Gawain wailed for Galahad._

He shut his eyes for a moment. He tried to darken the feelings, put them out. He wasn't supposed to feel this. He wasn't supposed to remember. He opened them again. Merlin hadn't moved.

"Let us help," the Woad said, steady, while his people were silent.

"You would help your enemy?" Tristan said. "The men who have killed your people?"

"The Saxons are our enemies also," said Merlin. "And as you have killed us, so we have killed you."

Tristan swallowed hard, the inside of his chest quivering with the bitter herbs spent on dead men.

"What the Saxons have done," Merlin started, "is a great evil – even in our eyes. We offer our bows, our blades, to Arthur."

Tristan's dark eyes shone like light in water. "Arthur – isn't here."

Merlin did not question this, regardless of his curiosity. "Then we offer ourselves to you."

* * *

Gawain snapped his head up from the thistle when a twig cracked. Cedric approached, staring at him with those inhuman eyes.

"So," he grunted. "Did he die, man? Your boy?"

The thistle swayed in Gawain's hand. The Saxons moved forward behind Cedric, as if they were the trees, waiting for the right moment to change.

"No," said Gawain, holding the thistle. "He lives."

* * *

"_One day, Arthur, I'll show you the earth." _

_Lancelot's voice rose from his heart and Arthur watched him star gaze with silent admiration._

"_Have I not already seen it, Lancelot?" _

"_Nay," said Lancelot. "Not here. You must walk the hills and soil of Sarmatia. If nothing else, my country is real. It is the earth no more closer than a man could be." He turned his head to look at Arthur. "Have you ever been joined with the earth, Arthur?" _

"_I am joined with God," said the Roman. "That is enough completion for me." _

"_I do not speak of completion, Arthur. I speak of ecstasy. I speak of feeling alive." _

_He rose up and leaned on his elbow, looking down into Arthur's eyes the way no one else could. _

"_I feel alive with you," said Arthur. Lancelot only smirked. _


End file.
